


Service

by Anonymous



Category: Fake News RPF, Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Blood, C-PTSD, Cuddling, Dramaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Emotional Porn, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Idfic, Illness, Kinkmeme, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Violence, WHERE DID THIS POLITICS STUFF COME FROM?!?!?!?!, i swear to god this was not supposed to be this way, if this is about you please for the love of God don't read it, iffy medical stuff, it's just you and me against the world, just pretend all drugs have vaxa in front of them, learned helplessness, this is an all around terrible situation, trigger warnings all the way across the sky, why does this have a plot?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 50
Words: 60,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "Jon/Stephen: both are slaves owned by Redstone, trying to look after each other as best they can."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Service, Part 1

The first time they had sex was a ridiculously long time after they met. It was a ridiculously long time after they started sleeping together, actually: five years since they discovered that spooning together on the bottom bunk might not cure Jon's insomnia or Stephen's nightmares, but it sure made them more manageable.  
  
It had been unexpected. His expectations of the night had actually consisted of several hours of worry, followed by watching Stephen stumble in with a collection of newly-formed bruises and welts, followed by several more hours of misplaced guilt.  
  
He was only half an hour into the worry portion of the night when Stephen walked in, looking shocked but unmolested.  
  
"Stephen!" Jon cried, sitting up. "You're okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine," Stephen replied. The door locked behind him with a small click, as both their presences registered with the Viacom mainframe as in their quarters. "O'Reilly didn't ask for me. Or Redstone withdrew his consent. Either way, I'm all yours for the rest of the night."  
  
Their quarters were ridiculously small. Jon pretty much just had to stand up to be in hugging range.  
  
Stephen breathed in sharply when Jon put his arms around him, though, so he dropped them immediately and stepped back as much as he could.  
  
"You said you were fine," Jon said.  
  
"I am," Stephen assured him. "I just- I uh-" He flushed bright red. "I took one of the blue pills. I, uh- I didn't-"  
  
Jon gave him another quick, involuntary once over and confirmed that yes, Stephen pants had a definite bulge in them.  
  
"Oh," Jon blushed too. "I'll give you-" He meant to say 'some space' or 'some privacy', but a lot of the emotions he tended not to want to deal with suddenly swelled up, and it changed to "Would you like a hand with that?"


	2. In Service, Part 2

"I-" Stephen licked his lips. His eyes were very dark: their normal warm brown color crowded out by black. "Do you want to give me a hand?"  
  
"I wouldn't mind," Jon said, going for casual.  
  
Stephen frowned. "I- I don't want you to not mind. I want you to-"  
  
Jon put his hand on Stephen's shoulder. Then he took a deep breath, and moved it to cup the side of Stephen's face. "I want to," he said. "If you want me to."  
  
Stephen kissed him, which Jon figured was a yes. He moved his hand to tilt Stephen's head to a better angle, and let out a quiet ' _mff_ ' when Stephen's tongue darted over his lips.  
  
Jon tugged him down on the bed and Stephen followed, and they sat on the edge, hands wandering tentatively, until kissing turned to Jon panting, short of breath, on Stephen's collarbone.  
  
"Should we get the curtains?" Stephen murmured, slightly breathlessly.  
  
Jon had been thinking about sucking on Stephen's neck, about how long he might be able to do it without leaving a mark, and it took a moment for the words to register. "Oh. Yeah."  
  
He scrambled back to pull them out from the wall, and Stephen fastened them shut. He took a long time doing it. Jon wondered if he could take off his shirt, if Stephen wanted him to take off his shirt, if he could even have sex like a person any more, if maybe this was only going to fuck them both up even more.  
  
Then he forced himself to stop. Stephen was still fiddling with the fastenings, probably worrying about most of the same things Jon was.  
  
"Are you okay?" Jon asked.  
  
"Yeah," Stephen replied.  
  
"Did you change your mind?" Jon asked. He reached his hand out and then snatched it back. "I mean, no pressure. I promise to still put out in cuddles if you don't want-"  
  
Stephen kissed him again. Jon couldn't stop himself from leaning into it, but he couldn't let himself take that as an answer either.  
  
"Stephen?" Jon asked again, after he managed to pull himself back.  
  
"Yes, Jon." He couldn't see his eyes very well in this light, but he got the impression that Stephen was rolling them at him. " _Yes_."  
  
Stephen crawled into his lap, and Jon worked a hand under his shirt, and then realized that, with the height difference, this was probably fairly uncomfortable for Stephen. He urged Stephen's hips up so he could scoot down the bed enough lay down on his back and Stephen clambered on top of him.  
  
It was kind of funny, how quickly he went from 'I am going to have sex' to 'impending meltdown'. The minute Stephen's weight settled on top of him, he was hit with two powerful, conflicting urges: one screaming _don't struggle, don't move, just let him take what he wants, don't think about it, don't engage with it, just let it happen_ and the other urging _this is your bed, this is your Stephen, this is what you want, don't mess up now_.  
  
The sound he makes is terrible and not sexy at all, and Jon doesn't blame Stephen in the slightest when he jumps away and out of bed, nearly ripping the curtains in the process.


	3. In Service, Part 3

Jon managed to sit up, and intended to follow Stephen out, but he was shaking too much to make it that far. Instead he listened to the sounds Stephen was making: the running water from the bathcorner, the sound of wicker rubbing against concrete, clothing hit the floor. Jon could picture him making all the accompanying motions easily. It was a soothing thought, and it left him completely unprepared for the stab of self-loathing that hit him when Stephen pulled back the curtains and sat down on the very edge of the bed.  
  
Jon jerked his gaze away from Stephen down to his hands, his face burning. He was an idiot. What the hell made him think that he was remotely capable of- and what the hell made him think it was a good idea to ask Stephen when he had a chemically induced hard-on, anyway?  
  
“Jon,” Stephen said.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jon replied, and then winced. It had come out less like an apology and more like a plea for mercy. He forced himself to look up, and said, more calmly, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Stephen moved next to him, slowly and deliberately, and put an arm around his shoulders. Jon registered that a part of him had been panicking about where or not he’d completely fucked up things with Stephen just before it relaxed a bit.  
  
“Do you- is it okay if I ask what-” Stephen stuttered to a stop, and took a deep breath. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself, up until you, uh, screamed. Can I ask when things went wrong?”  
  
“It was leftovers,” Jon said. “From the last place I was at- the one with the giant dick for a supe.” He leaned into Stephen, and took a moment to figure out the simplest way to put it. “I was enjoying myself. And then all kinds of ‘don’t struggle or you’ll make it worse’ shit came out of nowhere and strangled that.”  
  
“Are you okay now?” Stephen asked after a moment.  
  
“Reasonably,” Jon replied dryly. “I’m not about to have a panic attack if that’s what you mean.”  
  
They sat there in silence for a while. Stephen squeezed Jon’s arm once, and Jon laced their fingers together. Stephen’s mouth opened and closed periodically, but he didn’t say anything until Jon took matters into his own hands. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
Jon raised his head up from where it had been rested against Stephen’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure.”  
  
“Nothing I did-”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Jon,” Stephen said shortly, and Jon reluctantly let him speak. “I’m not fishing for guilt. I just wanted to know if there’s something I should avoid, if you ever feel like trying again.”


	4. In Service, Part 4

Jon pulled himself out from under Stephen’s arm and turned around as much as he could. The curtains were still open; he could see Stephen’s face clearly in the lights that never really turned off, lined with trepidation.  
  
“Don’t climb on top of me, next time, then,” he said. Then, as Stephen’s mouth twisted up into a ghost of a smile, he asked “What about you?”  
  
“What about me?” Stephen raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Is it okay for me to get on top of you, or should we stick to spooning?” Jon asked.   
  
“I think I’ll be fine, especially if we’re facing each other,” Stephen replied. “Though, I like the idea of spooning.”  
  
So did Jon. “Is there something you wouldn’t want me do?” he asked.  
  
“I-” Stephen’s gaze slid off Jon’s face, his eyes losing their focus. Concerned, Jon shifted closer. “Don’t pull my hair,” Stephen whispered. “Don’t- not anything that will make it hard to breathe.”  
  
“I won’t,” Jon soothed. He ran his fingers through Stephen’s hair, like he did when he was having a nightmare. Stephen’s eyes fluttered closed. “It won’t happen, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Stephen replied, pressing back into Jon’s touch.  
  
Jon leaned forwards and pressed a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. “Okay?”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”  
  
Jon kissed him again, more slowly. Stephen put his arm around Jon waist.   
  
“Are we trying again now?” he asked, when Jon broke the kiss.   
  
“If you want,” Jon said, slipping his hand around to cup Stephen’s face again.  
  
“Oh, I want,” Stephen said fervently.   
  
Jon dipped his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Stephen’s throat. He shouldn’t suck, he decided- he might misjudge when to stop and leave a mark, and then they’d get in trouble- so he kissed his way quickly to Stephen’s good ear, and Stephen’s hand slid under his shirt and splayed warmly in the small of his back.  
  
“Yes,” he said, aiming for husky and actually getting pretty close. “But _what_ , exactly do you want?”


	5. In Service, Part 5

“You,” Stephen said, and pulled him onto his lap. He was hard again, despite the fact that Jon was pretty sure he’d beaten off not fifteen minutes ago. It was the pill’s doing, Jon knew, but that didn’t stop the feeling of warmth that rushed through him, or stop him from pressing against Stephen’s cock.   
  
One of Stephen’s hands found its way into his hair, and he pulled Jon in for a kiss. It took some time before he was able to make himself break it long enough to say “I could suck you off.”  
  
Stephen’s hips bucked up against him with a soft moan.  
  
“You’d have to let me be in charge,” Jon said. “But it’d be good, Stephen. I could-” He interrupted himself with a groan: one of Stephen’s hands had dipped past the waistband of his pants, sliding along his ass. He arched into the touch, as Stephen’s other hand began tugging at his clothes.  
  
“Pants,” Stephen almost growled. “Off.”  
  
That sounded like a great idea to Jon, who had a sudden, acute awareness of just how hard he was. He moved off of Stephen, but not before planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth and saying “You too.”  
  
He tried not to worry as he shimmied out of his clothing, but he couldn’t help having a moment of anxiety when he finished only to find Stephen, hands frozen on the hem of his shirt, looking at him with an expression Jon had never seen on him before. He had scars- big, ugly ones curled around his left hip, etched into his back and running down along the inside the inside of his thighs. They still gave _him_ a start when he unexpectedly caught sight of them in the mirror.   
  
“Okay?” Jon checked.   
  
Stephen reached out a hand and ran it down Jon’s chest. “Lovely.”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Jon agreed, deadpan.  
  
Stephen half snorted, cutting himself off as Jon moved down so that he was facing Stephen’s cock. It was thick, dark, and wet around the head, shiny with precome. Jon ran the tips of his fingers through the patch of hair surrounding it, and Stephen shuddered, and let out a low, shaky breath.  
  
Jon lifted his eyes up so he could see Stephen’s face, bypassed his cock entirely, and kissed the small flap of fat on Stephen’s stomach. “Shirt,” he reminded him cheekily.  
  
Stephen let out a low, frustrated growl, propped himself up enough to rip off his shirt, and laid back down. Jon dipped a tongue into his navel, and began to kiss and lick his way up along his chest.   
  
“Jon,” Stephen panted, his hand on Jon’s shoulder. He didn’t seem able to decided whether he wanted to pull him up or push him down Jon laved attention on his nipple until Stephen was whimpering again, and he had to kiss him.   
  
It wasn’t much of a kiss, as both of them groaned as their cocks touched. Jon rolled his hips, panting into Stephen’s mouth, and Stephen forced a hand between them and wrapped it around both their cocks.   
  
“Fuck, Stephen,” Jon gasped, and then he came, with Stephen moaning, thrusting, and finally coming beneath him too.


	6. In Service, Part 6

Jon buried his face in the crook of Stephen’s shoulder, listening to his breathing even out. Then he kissed him, slowly, languidly. They could probably fall asleep like this: but Stephen’s hand must be falling asleep by now, and the curtains were still up.  
  
“Be right back,” Jon muttered, and levered himself off the bed.   
  
It was definitely the night cycle now: the lights were soft yellow rather that harsh white, and the temperature was dropping, and would, Jon knew, continue to drop until it was anywhere between ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘not quite cold enough to freeze the pipes’.   
  
He cleaned himself off quickly, with one of the old shirts they used as washcloths, and brought a fresh one back for Stephen.  
  
He looked half-asleep. Jon began wiping his stomach clean.  
  
“Tease,” Stephen said, a gentle smile curving his lips.   
  
“I’ll suck you off next time,” Jon promised.   
  
Stephen let Jon clean him off, and Jon flung the wet cloth in the general direction of their hamper before fastening the curtains shut. Stephen handed him his clothes, and they got dressed in silence, eye adjusting to the dark.   
  
Like he had a thousand times before, Jon settled down to sleep on his side, and like he had a thousand times before, Stephen curled behind him, one arm slung over Jon’s side. Jon took Stephen’s hand in his own, and pressed it to his lips, and Stephen buried his nose in Jon’s hair. That was new, but it was the only thing that was. They exchanged goodnights, and Stephen was soon asleep. Jon stayed awake a while longer, worrying, anxiety eating away at the pleasant drowsiness he’d had before.


	7. In Service, Part 7

Jon was a worrier by nature, and there were a lot of things in his life he had every right to be worried about. He worried his way through the new stuff first: that having sex might fuck up their friendship, that someone would notice some change in their dynamic and disapprove, that it would cause them to be separated, that it would garner them more interest.   
  
It got colder, and he reached down and pulled up the blanket they'd poached from the top bunk around their shoulders. Stephen muttered incoherently, and rolled over.  
  
Jon worried about the games Redstone was playing against Murdoch, about the roll Stephen was being forced to serve in them. He had figured, previously, that Redstone was using Stephen as bait, trying to tempt O’Reilly into signing a contract with Viacom. As time wore onward, as it became a matter of routine that whenever the NewsCorp people were visiting Stephen would be rented to O’Reilly, it seemed less and less likely to him that this was the case. O’Reilly might be passing corporate secrets to Redstone, and named Stephen as his price. Redstone could have been outmaneuvered by Murdoch in one way or another, and somehow Stephen had ended up as collateral damage.   
  
He knew it wasn’t hospitality that had Redstone giving his consent time after time. If Redstone had really thought that, then Jon would have spent at least some of the nights Carlson was visiting in a great deal of pain. There had to be a reason for it, just like there had to be a reason there was currently several stories between Stephen and O’Reilly right now. He just hoped that it really was as good as it seemed, and Stephen wouldn't end up paying for it later.  
  
Stephen’s leg jerked and he whimpered. Jon shifted around on the bed so he was facing Stephen, and brushed the hair from his face.   
  
“You’re okay Stephen,” Jon lied. “You’re safe. Everything’s fine.”  
  
He meant to worry some more, but he drifted off not long after Stephen calmed down.   
  
It was five years until the end of Stephen’s term of service, and four and a half until the end of Jon’s.


	8. Servable, Part 1A

When Stephen woke up, he found that they’d shifted around a lot in while he was asleep: he was still curled around Jon’s back, but they were facing the wall, rather than the curtains now. Jon was warm, and Stephen stayed next to him until the pressure on his bladder got too much to ignore and he needed to get up.   
  
Jon stirred when he crawled back into bed, and slurred out a sleepy “G’morning.”  
  
“Morning,” Stephen replied, and pulled him closer, burying his nose into the hair behind Jon’s ear. They lay like that for a while, Stephen memorizing the feel of Jon breathing against him. Jon shivered when Stephen pressed a kiss to the back of his ear, so he did it again.  
  
“Mmph.” Jon pressed back against him, and Stephen sucked the lobe of his ear into his mouth. Jon flushed, and Stephen could feel the heat of it building between them. He slipped his hand beneath Jon’s waistband in an effort to soak more of it up. Jon hissed, and hooked his leg back over Stephen’s, pulling his pants tightly over his erection.   
  
“Okay?” Stephen asked, his hand already creeping downward despite himself.  
  
“Yes, please Stephen-” he cut himself off with a groan as Stephen wrapped his fingers around his cock.   
  
“I like the noises you make,” Stephen murmured, dragging his hand slowly upwards.  
  
Jon groaned again, and pressed himself back against him, grinding his ass against Stephen’s growing erection. Stephen pulled him closer and swirled his thumb around the head of Jon’s cock, marveling at the feel of Jon’s breath hitching, at the heat radiating out from his body.  
  
He wanted to remove their clothes, but would have required moving apart, and he _really_ didn’t want to do that. They stayed as they were instead, Jon rocking back on his dick and up into his hand, Stephen learning by touch what made him stutter out swears and pleas and Stephen’s name.   
  
Jon came with a wordless cry and a full-bodied shiver, spilling into Stephen’s hand. Stephen nearly came with him. They were still for a moment, Stephen’s face pressed against the side of Jon’s neck as his panting breath evened out.   
  
After a long moment, Stephen collected himself enough to pull his hand out of Jon’s pants. Before he could wipe it off on the blanket or his shirt, however, Jon caught it by the wrist and brought it to his mouth.   
  
Stephen watched with wide eyes as Jon licked up his palm and sucked his fingers into his mouth. Then his eyes fluttered closed, as the sensation became too much for him to see and feel the same time.   
  
When Jon released his fingers with an obscene pop, Stephen moaned and let himself fall limply down on his back.  
  
“You okay, babe?” Jon asked. One hand reached out to cradle the side of his head, but Stephen didn’t bother opening his eyes.   
  
“Yep,” he replied. “Never better.”  
  
“You’re about to be,” Jon said, urging his hips up so he could pull Stephen’s pants down. Stephen had to look at that, so he opened his eyes and craned his neck just in time to see Jon lick his way up the shaft of his cock.  
  
“Jon,” Stephen said. Jon took the tip of his dick into his mouth and sucked, hard. “Jonjonjonjonjonjon…”  
  
Jon swallowed him down, his throat closing around Stephen’s dick. Stephen shook with the effort of not thrusting into his mouth, his fists clenched tightly in the sheets.  
  
“Jonohgodjonyourmouthplease…”  
  
It looked like Jon was fucking his mouth on Stephen’s dick, like he was enjoying sucking on it as much as Stephen was enjoying being sucked, and when Stephen came with an incoherent shout he swallowed every drop.  
  
Jon pillowed his head on Stephen’s thigh during the afterglow, and eventually, Stephen’s hand began to card its way through Jon’s hair. It was very curly hair, curlier even than his own, and he loved the way it felt between his fingers.   
  
He didn’t have enough opportunities to touch Jon’s hair. He also didn’t have enough opportunities to see the satisfied, almost smug, look that was currently on Jon’s face. He felt ridiculously decadent, lying there with his pants bunched around his knees, Jon’s breath fluttering warmly over his hips.  
  
Then the morning wake-up whistle sounded, loud and shrill, shattering all the pleasant feelings Stephen had been buoyed on.

Jon sat up, Stephen’s hand falling from him as he did. “Well,” he said, his voice betraying his trepidation. “Time to face the day.”  
  
“I guess so,” Stephen replied, forcing himself up as well.  
  
“Hey,” Jon said, taking his face in both of his hands. “We’re going to be fine.”  
  
Stephen had to suppress a stab of annoyance at the lie, rather than properly enjoying himself when Jon kissed him. He wasn’t the naïve young man that had arrived here seven years ago, convinced that his family would pay the debt and come to collect him in a month or two before anything too bad could happen. He knew there were about eighteen different ways this could come back to fuck them over. He didn’t need Jon to protect him from that knowledge.  
  
“Right,” he replied, and began to open the curtains.


	9. Servable, Part 1B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this fic, let's pretend Twilight happened the early aughties, rather than the mid.

Both Jon and Stephen were part of the writing staff for Viacom’s humorous news program, The Nightly Recap: Jon was in charge of interview prep, and Stephen wrote character bits. The staff as a whole was made up of eight people including the pair of them, all slaves of one stripe or another, a fact which Viacom only advertised by not listing them in the credits. Olivia had managed to glean from one of the freemen who took an interest in her that most of the general public assumed that Leno and company improvised it all, which made all of them laugh.  
  
They tended to do the bulk of their work before eleven am, break for lunch, and then do whatever rewrites Leno or the actors wanted in the afternoon before officially beginning to brainstorm tomorrow’s show and unofficially goofing off. The Nightly Recap was the most popular show on the midnight time slot, and the general consensus was that they couldn’t be asked for more than that, so they weren’t about to give it.   
  
As far as job assignments went, they could have ended up with worse ones. Jon _had_ gotten a worse one originally, Stephen reminded himself, where the owner consented to pretty much anything being done to his slaves and the supe had developed a terrifying obsession with him. There was no risk of that here. They hardly saw their supe half an hour out of the day, in five minute bursts. There was so little contact that Karlin was still getting Wyatt and Tim mixed up, three years after the latter had been assigned to them.  
  
Knowing all this did nothing to calm his nerves, nor, he could tell, Jon’s. It was all he could do not to look over his shoulder at every time he and Jon were in proximity to one another, to make sure they were getting normal reactions. For one thing, that would only draw attention to the fact that he had something to hide: for another, he’d stopped paying attention to the freemen unless they did something to draw it or came within ten feet of him a while ago, and he’d fallen out of the habit of meeting anyone’s eyes a while before that. He wouldn’t know what he was looking for. 

It got easier once they were shut into the writing room with their assignments. Part of Lord of the Rings had been introduced into Congressional Record this morning, so he and Olivia spent most of the morning getting their geek on. He still jumped, though, when Karlin came in to check on their progress, and just as things were winding up to lunch, she pulled him aside and asked if he needed to go to the dispensary.   
  
He assured her that he was fine, and when that failed, he asked “Is it weird to be on edge because you haven’t gotten the shit beat out of you?”  
  
“No,” she replied.  
  
Oddly enough, that bit of validation helped- at the very least he could enjoy his lunch after that, which was good, because it was one of their better ones. Aasif had gotten his cutlery privileges back, and a letter from John Oliver had arrived. It was addressed to him (because he could write to them as a group and Stephen was the only one of them who didn’t get any mail from the outside) and he delighted in reading it to himself first, deciding which voices to use and making everyone else urge him to read faster. He returned from lunch in a much calmer state of mind then he left it, and hardly jumped at all when Helms popped in to discuss the bit he’d written for his character.

He tried not to pay too much attention to Jon, for fear of giving them away. As the afternoon wore on and their work ethic began to lag, it became more and more difficult to do. When he wasn’t tracking the way Jon was tossing his pen, he was remembering, and wondering.  
  
When he found himself thinking about what sort of positions they could get in so Stephen could blow Jon without triggering something in either of them, he gave himself a mental shake and refocused on the topic at hand.  
  
“What the hell is Ron Paul even talking about anyway?” Wyatt asked, staring up at the muted TV in horror.  
  
“The gold standard? The evils of interventionism? The naivety of abolitionists?” Jon guessed not looking up from his paper, which was sporting several scribbles.  
  
“Missed it,” Sarah said, gesturing to wear the closed captioning was displaying sound bites about gay marriage.   
  
Jon looked up in time for the captioning to change to a sound bite about the naivety of abolitionists. He smirked; Sarah rolled her eyes.  
  
“You have to admire him for his consistency,” he said.   
  
“ _Slavery serves an admirable function_ ” the closed captioning informed them. “ _It segregates out the lazy and criminal elements of humanity, and allows them to serve a higher purpose_.”  
  
“It’s like admiring a dick for not having herpes,” Olivia said. Jon snickered into his wrist, and the door opened before Stephen could get distracted by the light in his eyes.   
  
“The dress rehearsal went okay, and to the best of my knowledge no one’s sent for any of you tonight. You’re good for dinner and the rest of the night,” Karlin informed them.  
  
There was a general scraping of chairs and a chorus of “Yes, sir”s and “Thank you, sir”s and they trooped off to the mess hall.

Dinner could have been a nice as lunch, had not the guards come in halfway through with further work orders and notices of consent. Stephen tensed, his spoon frozen over his soup, sure that O’Reilly had sent for him tonight, the last night they were hosting the NewsCorp people at Viacom’s Eastern Estate. But time and again, their table was passed by, and when they filed out again, no one at their table had been given anything.   
  
Assuming no one stopped him in the hall when he turned in for the night… maybe he’d seen the last of O’Reilly. Or, given that he was one of their staple sources of material, maybe he’d just seen the last of his dick.   
  
Hallelujah.  
  
“Apparently they’re showing the new Twilight movie here tonight,” Aasif said. “Courtesy of the Humane Society, I kid you not.”  
  
“At least we can laugh over how terrible it is?” Sarah offered.  
  
“I’m okay with that,” Al said.   
  
“Count me out,” Wyatt said.  
  
“Me too,” said Tim.  
  
“Me three,” said Aasif  
  
“Me four,” Olivia added.  
  
“Don’t look at me with those said eyes, Miss Vowell,” Stephen said sternly. “I couldn’t even bring myself to read the book.”  
  
He nodded his head towards the cart of paperback books in varying states of disrepair that served as the slave library. Sarah transferred her gaze expectantly to Jon, who had to be tapped on the shoulder before responding.   
  
“Huh? Sorry, I heard the word ‘Twilight’ and zoned out,” he said. “I think I’ll make it an early night.”  
  
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Spoilsports.”  
  
The dishwasher began to call for dishes then, and everyone stopped talking in favor of scrambling to finish their food.


	10. Servable, Part 1C

He followed Jon closely as they made their way down the hallways of the dormitories, trying to remember how exactly actual people talked about sex. Maybe he should try for funny? “I really admire how your dick does not have herpes”? Funny generally worked between the two of them, but then again, they were generally deflecting from, well, everything, rather than trying to talk about it.

Maybe he should just go for honest. “I’d really like to suck your cock.” That sounded about right, though, maybe he should stick a “If you’re okay with that” on the end of it. The last thing he wanted was for Jon to feel obligated to have sex with him.

Though he doubted that was really going to happen. He seemed to enjoy himself this morning, after all. Maybe they could sixty-nine…

They’d reached their quarters, and Jon pushed the door in, and then froze. Stephen peered over his shoulder to see what was wrong, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

There, seated on their bed, was O’Reilly.


	11. Servable, Part II

_This is going to be very bad._ Stephen thought, in the initial moment when, for all that he was aware that his heart rate had doubled and all the color had drained from his face, it still didn't feel like it was happening to him.   
  
“Get inside,” O’Reilly ordered.   
  
Jon shuffled in, Stephen close behind him, and they moved to the corner of the room as O’Reilly stood up and the door locked shut behind them.  
  
 _This is going to be even worse than usual, because you don’t have the pills and it’s going to happen to Jon too. Or_ Stephen focused on the collar- collar, singular, only one notice of consent- in O’Reilly’s hand. _Or he’s going to have to see it, at least._  
  
The thought made him queasy, and it pulled him back into himself. He hunched over, miserable, and waited.   
  
“Get out of the way,” O’Reilly said. Jon hesitated for the barest moment, and then moved to the side. It was the wrong direction to move in, apparently, because O’Reilly grabbed him by the neck and pulled him over to the bed, pushing him onto the bottom bunk.   
  
Stephen had one look at the expression on Jon’s face, the same glassy-eyed panic he’d shown last night, and the words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them. “Please don’t-”

O’Reilly’s head snapped around, and he glared at him, eyes narrowed. Jon lay where he was, trembling slightly.   
  
“If you move,” O’Reilly said, looking back down at Jon. “If you even make a sound, I will see you flogged. Do you understand me?”  
  
Jon nodded frantically. “Yes sir.”  
  
Stephen wasn’t sure Jon was aware enough to know what he’d agreed to do, but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. O’Reilly handed him the collar.  
  
“Put it on.”  
  
He did so on autopilot; his hands knew the motions well enough to go through them without any input from him.  
  
“Take off those clothes.”  
  
He knew how to do that from a distance too.  
  
“Kneel.”  
  
He knelt.   
  
“Where were you last night?”  
  
“Here,” Stephen replied, focusing on the floor. His brain suddenly kicked itself into overdrive, leaping onto the assumption that O’Reilly had asked for him last night, and that what he really needed to do was convince of the truth- that if he’d gotten the notice he would have come, but there had been no notice.  
  
It wouldn’t do any good. He knew that. Once O’Reilly got something into his head, it would take a lot more than anything he could say to get it out again.

“What, were you so eager to suck your boyfriend’s cock that you forgot I owned you for the night?” O’Reilly asked.  
  
“I didn’t receive a notice,” Stephen said, hoping he would drop the boyfriend thing.  
  
No such luck. “Or is he the one who pretends to be a woman? Is that how it works?”  
  
Stephen flinched. O’Reilly kicked him in ribs and he bit back a grunt of pain.  
  
“Faggot,” he sneered.   
  
This was how this was going to come back to bite them, he realized. O’Reilly had gotten something true into his head, and he’d spread it around, and it would only be a matter of time before people began reacting to the information.  
  
O’Reilly slapped him across the face. “Open up.”  
  
But that was for later. For now, he had to get through tonight.  
  
Stephen opened his mouth, and O’Reilly pulled back on his hair until his face was tipped up. O’Reilly guided the tip of his dick into his mouth, and pulled Stephen’s head forward until there were pubes tickling his nose and he was fighting his gag reflex.

O’Reilly hardened quickly in his mouth, and was soon thrusting in earnest.  
  
 _This is why you need pills_ Stephen though, trying to put as much distance between himself and the feel of O’Reilly’s cock hitting the back of his throat as possible. _If you’d managed to get one, all of this would have faded into sensation, and you’d have no trouble ignoring the context at all._  
  
They also, more often than not, helped him get to the floaty, out-of-body state of mind he preferred to be in while this was happening, which might be more worrying if thinking he should be worried about it for too long pushed him to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Experiencing everything like it was happening to someone else was much, much easier then-  
  
Oh God, _Jon_.  
  
Jon was watching this. Jon was right there on the bed and he was watching Stephen-  
  
He snapped back into full awareness, the jolt enough to slip his lips off his teeth, which scraped along O’Reilly’s shaft. O’Reilly cursed and pushed him away, landing a solid kick to his stomach before he could curl up on himself.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.  
  
Stephen couldn’t stop coughing long enough to answer. O’Reilly did seem to be looking for one, however, and hauled him up by the collar and pushed him face-first into the wall by the bed.  
  
 _Not this._ He couldn’t see Jon from where he was standing, but he had the terrible suspicion that Jon had a first-class view of his ass and what O’Reilly was going to do to it. _Not in front of Jon, please-_  
  
The first blow took him by surprise, and he jerked away instinctively. O’Reilly growled at him to stay put, and he froze. His belt, Stephen figured, as it came down again, and again.

 _Just stay quiet,_ he told himself, gritting his teeth. _He’ll stop sooner if you just stay quiet._  
  
O’Reilly kept at it, until his tirade about slaves needing to be beaten to be kept in their place, the lack of respect Stephen showed him- _Oh, right. You forgot your ‘sirs’ again._ \- and what a travesty it was that he was allowed to work on something that could be watched by decent people was less words and more angry huffing.   
  
Stephen’s back, buttocks and thighs _hurt_ , stinging hotly, except for the spot by his hip where it felt like O’Reilly had actually broken through the skin.  
  
He couldn’t help but whimper when O’Reilly forced his ass cheeks apart, but he managed to keep quiet when he felt something plastic go between them, and the cold slimy feel of lubricant being squeezed into his ass.  
  
 _Oh thank God he’s using lube this time,_ Stephen thought with gratitude that turned his stomach as soon as he realized it was there.  
  
It was all the preparation he was getting tonight, apparently, because at that moment O’Reilly pushed in.  
  
 _Just relax and bear down,_ Stephen reminded himself. _Relax and bear down, it’ll be over soon, you don’t want to bleed, Jon is watching._  
  
Jon is watching.

He was suddenly, acutely aware that he was being fucked in the ass by a man who was beating him not two minutes ago, a man he was pretty sure he well and truly hated, and Jon was watching.   
  
He was angry at Jon for a moment, before self-loathing hit. The feelings left him quickly: there was nothing either of them could do to stop this, and any attempt would only make thing exponentially worse. He knew that, but the knowledge only made him feel like the most miserable, lowliest, pathetic thing on the planet.   
  
For the first time in almost a year, he found himself choking back tears.

It felt like forever before O’Reilly finally came, and even longer before he put his clothes to rights and moved away, and Stephen could let himself sink to the floor. He crouched down on the flats of his feet, and leaned his shoulder on the wall. His hand pressed around his throat: yes, the collar was gone. O’Reilly had it. It was all over now.  
  
He closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. For a long moment, that was very nearly all there was in the world, then a hand was in his hair. He started, and opened his eyes to find Jon kneeling before him.  
  
“Hey,” he said. His expression was unreadable beyond seeming very sad.  
  
O’Reilly kicked at the door. Stephen started again: he hadn’t even realized he was still in the room. Not a second later he’d taken a step around the bedframe and was towering over them, looking murderous.  
  
Stephen pulled at Jon’s shoulder: Jon didn’t take the hint to move, so he mostly just succeeded at pulling the back of his shirt up.  
  
“Why isn’t door opening?” O’Reilly demanded.  
  
“It locks automatically when both of our chips register as present, and the workday’s done, sir,” Jon answered.  
  
“How do I-” The door opened, and O’Reilly cut himself off as Riggle poked his head in the door.   
  
“Is there a problem?”  
  
“Oh, there’s a problem!” O’Reilly yelled, pushing past him into the hallway.  
  
Riggle disappeared for a moment, but was back in before the door had a chance to close again. “What the fuck was that?”  
  
“He was here when we came in, sir,” Jon said. “He had a notice of consent, there was-” He closed his eyes, and pained expression on his face. “There was nothing we could do, sir.”  
  
Riggle looked uncomfortable. “Well, carry on then.”  
  
He left, the door closing and locking behind him.   
  
“I need to take a shower,” Stephen said, very proud of the way his voice didn’t break.  
  
“Okay,” Jon agreed, helping him to his feet. “Do you want any-”  
  
“No!” Stephen said, too harshly. Jon curled in upon himself a little.  
  
“Not right-” he tried again. “Let me take a shower, first. After.”  
  
Jon nodded, and let him go.

His shower ended abruptly when the night cycle began, cutting off the hot water. He swore, fumbled it off, and stumbled back around to the front of the bed. Jon handed him the good towel, then began staring at the curtain, which was damp from the spray.  
  
“Your back’s going to need some salve,” Jon said, turning the tube over in his hand.   
  
“Can you do it?” Stephen asked, patting down his hair.   
  
Jon relaxed slightly. “Sure.”  
  
Stephen finished drying then lay face down on the bed. He heard Jon pop off the cap, and then there was the cool, slick feeling of the salve on the highest of his welts, followed by pins-and-needles numbness. He’d found that disconcerting once, he remembered, but it was reassuring now.  
  
Jon grunted when he came across the place on his hip where his skin had split open. “Hang on. Let me get some antiseptic.”  
  
It couldn’t have been worse than a scratch, but Stephen replied with an “Okay.”  
  
Jon got up, and spoke over the sound of him digging through the wicker basket. “You should go to the dispensary tomorrow, and have the medic take a look at that. I’m pretty sure it’s company policy that they aren’t supposed to make you bleed.”  
  
“It doesn’t count if it doesn’t scar,” Stephen told him.  
  
Jon found what he was looking for, and sat back down without replying. He rubbed the antiseptic into the cut, and it stung, and Stephen found himself thinking about the scars Jon had.  
  
 _I will see you flogged_ O’Reilly had said. Viacom didn’t flog their slaves- they had electrodes, which were seen as a more humane way to correct them when it came to serious infractions- but plenty of other places still did, out of respect for tradition. NewsCorp did. Wherever Jon had worked before Viacom had too.  
  
He couldn’t even imagine it. He could, just barely, handle a beating, and he generally had access to-  
  
“I think I’ll go to the dispensary anyway,” Stephen said, as the idea occurred to him. “I think I should have a stash of pills down here, in case O’Reilly decides to come back.”  
  
Jon jerked, his hands frozen.“O’Reilly’s not- why would he _want_ to come back? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the guest rooms are much nicer than ours.”  
  
“And coming down here is much more unsettling,” Stephen pointed out. “He could decide to do it just to fuck with our heads. So I’d like to be ready, just in case.”  
  
“Do you think he’ll give you any? I mean, it’s one thing on the days O’Reilly is visiting- it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ll need them- but otherwise…” Jon started rubbing the salve in again.  
  
“Fair point,” Stephen conceded. “He doesn’t always ask for me on the first night, when they’ve got one of those three-day conferences. I could get one then, possibly.”  
  
“I could ask for one, the next time someone requests me, and then pass it on to you” Jon offered. “They don‘t work for me like they do for you, but I don’t think the medic knows that.”  
  
“If you can do it, that would be great,” Stephen said.   
  
Jon was reaching the end of Stephen’s injuries, and the movements of his hands were slowing. “Can I do anything else?”

Stephen stayed silent, deliberating, trying to find a way to phrase what he wanted without it sounding like a recrimination. Jon’s hands stilled as he finished.  
  
“Did it help, my being here, or did it hurt?” Jon asked.  
  
Relief swept through him at not needing to spell it out.  
  
“It didn’t help, having you here during,” Stephen said, sitting up. “But- I really need you here, after.”  
  
Jon looked sad again. Stephen pulled him in for a hug.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Jon said.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Stephen protested.  
  
“I know, but-I’m still sorry.”


	12. Servings, Part One

The next day, Jon shaved quickly, barely meeting his own eyes in the mirrors before wiping his face and rinsing the razor off for the next guy in line. It was a long-time habit of his, and if he’d gone quicker today, well, he was entitled. He’d shaved very carefully yesterday, and he was tired.  
  
He stayed up late last night with Stephen, later than he normally did, even. They talked about what could be done about keeping O’Reilly out of their quarters, as Stephen’s back dried. It wasn’t the first time they’d spent some time coordinating survival strategies- that had been shortly after it’s been made clear that O’Reilly was going to get Stephen nearly every night he came around, and had pretty much consisted of them trying very hard not to come to the obvious conclusion.  
  
O’Reilly was, at most, around twenty nights out of the year. Redstone, and everyone who worked on his behalf on the production team, owned him until his debt had been paid off. O’Reilly might have been directed to Stephen because Stephen wrote for the character that mocked him, but there was no guarantee that changing the character would get him to back off, and every chance that it would get him into trouble with the Viacom people, who thought that the character was the greatest thing since sliced bread. It was better that he put up with O’Reilly’s temper a few nights at a time then have to be under that kind of pressure all the time. Once they’d accepted that, it was a matter of trying to contain the damage.  
  
Their talk last night had had a similarly cheerful tone. Once they’d accepted that O’Reilly could chose to come to their quarters whenever he pleased, it had been a matter of figuring out how they could make him not want to choose it. Everything Stephen knew about what O’Reilly liked had already been applied to try and minimize the damage he inflicted on Stephen, so there wasn’t anything to be used there. They could try to make their quarters less appealing, at least on the days O’Reilly was visiting: strew around dirty clothes or tip over the wicker basket, or something. Beyond that, the only thing either of them could come up with was that if it did happen, Jon needed to let Stephen go in alone.  
  
He didn’t like that idea. He didn’t like it at all. But there wasn’t anything else to do, except to stick around outside and wait for it to be over.  
  
That, and try to get through today.  
  
Jon stuck close to Stephen during breakfast as he tried to find a way to sit down that didn’t hurt, slipping a role up his sleeve for him when Stephen didn’t manage to eat very much as a consequence. He joined Stephen on the floor of the writing room after the morning briefing when he decided that chairs were overrated, and inadvertently inspired everyone else to do the same, much to Karlin’s bewilderment.  
  
“Are you having a sleepover?” Karlin asked.   
  
“We’re thinking about writing a bit about one, sir,” Tim improvised.  
  
“All of you?”  
  
“I’m just down here in the name of team spirit, sir,” Jon added.  
  
“Me too, sir,” said Sarah, who didn’t have a character to write for either.  
  
“Right,” Karlin said, disbelieving. “Well, as long as you have your work done..?”  
  
There was a chorus of “Yes sir”s.  
  
“Then hand it over and go have lunch,” Karlin advised, holding out his hand.

Stephen sat determinedly still during lunch, his eyes narrowed in pain, and talked very little. Jon got a letter from his brother, which he kept to himself; Olivia got a letter from her mother, which she shared with Wyatt and Aasif.   
  
They spent the afternoon coming up with a plausible skit that involved all their characters having sleepovers, with Jon and Sarah alternately critiquing and transcribing. It certainly wasn’t the worst work they’d ever done, and it was a lot more fun of everyone’s normal mode of working, which was to hash out what they were doing and then do it either alone or in pairs. They could probably even use it tomorrow, which meant that everyone who wasn’t trying to read the interviewer’s book in the space of a few hours could have some time to themselves. That would be nice. They didn’t get many days off.  
  
Olivia got a notice of consent at dinner. There was a pause at their table, during which everyone suddenly found their food fascinating to look at, except for Aasif, who shifted a bit closer to Olivia as she calmly took the collar and was informed that she could finish eating first.  
  
Jon ate the rest of his meal mechanically, knowing exactly how Aasif was feeling, worrying about Olivia, and vaguely aware that he wasn’t normally this upset by it.  
  
There wasn’t a movie showing that night, so everyone went back to their rooms after they started collecting plates. Stephen began wilting visibly after they peeled away from the main group to go down to their quarters, and by the time they got to the door Jon was being to worry that he’d pass out.  
  
He opened the door, and checked: their room was empty. Stephen sat down on the bed with a grunt of pain and buried his face in his hands.  
  
“Do you want the shower first, or-”  
  
Not bothering to lift his head up, Stephen shook his head.   
  
Jon showered quickly. When he finished and toweled off, Stephen had managed to pull his head up.  
  
“I can do your back again, after-”  
  
Stephen nodded, hauled himself to his feet, and went into the bath corner. Jon frowned, and went to dig out the salve along with his sleeping clothes.  
  
He didn’t like it when Stephen was this quiet. It felt wrong.


	13. Servings, Part Two

Stephen stayed in the shower for a while, long enough for Jon’s hair to dry, before the he finally emerged. Jon handed him a clean towel, and he dried himself off enough to lay down on the bed.  
  
The scratch had scabbed over, and didn’t look infected. The rest of his back pretty much looked entirely like one giant purple bruise, underneath the criss-cross pattern of welts. Jon winced in sympathy, then began rubbing the salve in.  
  
“You got a letter today,” Stephen said, after a minute.  
  
“Yeah,” Jon confirmed. “From Larry. His middle child- Mike- he had his bar mitzvah about a week ago. And Mom’s talking about retiring again.”  
  
“Doesn’t she do that every year?” Stephen asked.  
  
“And every year Larry worries about what she’ll do with herself if she actually goes through with it,” Jon replied.  
  
Stephen made a hum, in the back of his throat. Jon could feel it in his fingertips.  
  
“Well, as long as she doesn’t sign away all her investments, I’m sure she’d find something to keep herself busy,” Stephen said.  
  
Jon grimaced. Stephen’s mother had been swindled out of everything she had and then some: it was how he’d ended up in service in the first place. _Someone_ had to be collateral for the payment of the debt, and Stephen was the only one of the Colberts who didn’t have a spouse and kids. He’d been told that they could get all the money they needed if they had a little more time, that he’d be free again in a month or two, tops.   
  
Seven years later, not only was Stephen still here, but he’d had no contact with his family. They hadn’t sent him so much as a postcard.  
  
“There’s not much chance of that,” Jon told him. “Larry’s pretty good with money, so Mom lets him handle the bulk of her investments.”  
  
For a while, Stephen didn’t respond. Then he said “I wonder what they were told, sometimes. My family, I mean.”  
  
Jon didn’t know how to respond to that. Though, as it turned out, he didn’t need to.  
  
“They must have told them something,” Stephen continued. “They wouldn’t have just left me here. I just- did they tell them I was dead? Is someone dead? Are they all dead and that’s why I don’t know what’s going on?”  
  
They had probably taken whatever money they managed to get and kept it. It happened sometimes. Everyone had heard the stories about people who did that, including Stephen. There was no reason to remind him of it.  
  
“Though, I’m kind of happy my mother can’t see me now,” Stephen said, clearly trying to lighten to tone.  
  
Jon was all too happy to oblige. “I can’t think of many mothers who’d be happy to find their son with my hands on his ass, now that you bring it up.”  
  
Stephen snorted, and jerked his leg at Jon in what was probably supposed to be a kick. “Not you,” he said, an eyeroll audible in his voice. “Almost everything else _but_ you.”  
  
“Oh, is that so?” Jon asked, before he could stop himself.  
  
“Yep,” Stephen mumbled into the bed. “You’re a keeper.”

Stephen was half asleep by the time Jon finished. Jon offered to wake him when his back was dry, which he accepted gratefully. Jon sat next to him on the bed, and began to worry.  
  
He started at the part he’d been unable to figure out last night: why hadn’t Stephen gotten that notice of consent? It was possible that Redstone had denied consent, of course, but if that was the case then why would he allow it the next night? It just didn’t make any sense. He knew this had to have something to do with Viacom’s fight with NewsCorp, and he knew he and Stephen were being used in some way that Redstone thought would be to his advantage. He knew that O’Reilly was the person he was trying to manipulate, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know what Redstone wanted, or what O’Reilly had. He didn’t know how the hell having O’Reilly fuck and fuck up Stephen was supposed to get anything.  
  
What he really needed was a way to get more information. Right now, he only had what he caught on the television, which, given that he generally had books to read and the TV was set to mute, wasn’t a lot.   
  
Sarah would probably know something, and he resolved to ask her the next time he got a chance.  
  
The lights changed over, snapping him out of his head. Stephen’s back was dry.  
  
“Hey,” he said, shaking Stephen lightly by the shoulder. Stephen turned his head, and gave him a muzzy eyed-glare. “Get your clothes before it gets any colder.”  
  
“Get the for me, seeing as you’re already dressed?” Stephen asked.  
  
Jon heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose, since you’re having a crappy day.”  
  
“Mpph,” Stephen agreed, burying his head in his arms again.   
  
Jon swung his legs down on the floor and walk the three steps necessary to get to the wicker basket. “You know, the next time I’m not feeling well and you’re trying to get me out of bed, I’ll remember this.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Stephen said, holding out a hand.   
  
Jon gave him his clothes, and then shut the curtains. Stephen pulled the covers up around them, and they settled down, Stephen curled around Jon’s back, one more day over and done with.


	14. Servings, Part Three

Jon didn’t get a chance to ask Sarah anything the next day, in part because McGreevey was resigning, and in part because someone put in a request for him early enough that Karlin announced it to the room when they were let out for dinner. It kind of killed the potential for conversation, as Jon was too busy trying to suppress his urge to freak right the fuck out to actually talk to anyone. He barely remembered to get a pill and pass it on to Stephen.  
  
It wasn’t a horrible night, in that he wasn’t wanted for anything either violent or personal. He’d been requested by a guy who had popped two blue pills into his mouth and outlined a fantasy he wanted Jon to enact. It started with Jon naked and under his desk, and from there went through to Jon sucking his cock repeatedly, touching himself, getting hard but not coming. It ended with Jon’s jaw aching, come dripping down his face, walking unsteadily to the public bathroom as the freeman deposited the collar down the laundry chute.  
  
It wasn’t the worst that could have happened, but he treated himself to a long, nearly-scalding shower anyway. Jerking off took hardly any effort at all, three long pulls before he came, no need to think about anything. So naturally he thought for the rest of the shower.  
  
He remembered the first year he was a slave, being mortified when he was first turned on by being forced to suck cock, not in the least because he hadn’t considered that his vivid fantasies about Bruce Springsteen might count against his general straightness. It seemed so weird that he would have been worried about that. These days he figured he’d sort out the question of his sexual identity later, when it became an issue.  
  
Which, he realized with a start, might actually be right now. There was Stephen, assuming Stephen still wanted to have sex now that they knew O’Reilly wasn’t out of the picture. Of course, that wouldn’t stop them from sleeping together, or preclude Stephen from wanting to kiss him, or more relevantly, stop _Jon_ from wanting to have sex with him.  
  
So did he want to have sex with Stephen? Really want to have sex with Stephen, as opposed to having a pile up of desperation, co-dependency, loneliness, and possibly a strange kind of Stockholm syndrome driving his libido, that was.  
  
Stephen wanted someone who wanted him, and he deserved it.  
  
He thought about what he felt for Stephen for about three seconds before he had to stop. He wanted. He wanted more than it was healthy for him to deal with right now.  
  
Well, then. He was officially not entirely straight. That was kind of a useless revelation to have. And it was probably time for him to get out of the shower.


	15. Servings, Part Four

Stephen was asleep when he got back, but he’d clearly dozed off waiting for Jon, slumped against the headboard and half-sitting on top of the blankets. Jon changed his clothing as quietly as possible, but somehow or another Stephen had woken up by the time he got back around to the front of the bed.  
  
“Hey,” said Stephen, shifting down to lie flat on his back.   
  
“Hi,” Jon replied.  
  
Stephen held up his hands; Jon took them, and let himself be pulled down on top of him.  
  
“Is your back okay?” he asked.  
  
“It’s fine,” Stephen said. “I had Tim do my back back, and I did the rest myself.”  
  
Jon shifted a bit, until he found a comfortable spot just below Stephen’s collarbone to put his head.   
  
“How are- are you okay?” Stephen asked.  
  
“I’m fine,” Jon said. “Nothing bruised or broken. Throat’s a bit sore, though.”  
  
One of Stephen’s hands found its way to the back of his neck, and began rubbing. The air left Jon’s lungs in a quiet whoosh, and he closed his eyes in appreciation.  
  
He only realized he’d drifted off when he woke up some hours later. He was facing the wall, under the blankets, Stephen curled around him more tightly than usual. Their legs were completely tangled together, Stephen’s hand clutching the front of his shirt, his face pressed into the top of Jon’s head. Jon lay there for a while, waiting for his worries to start nagging, but they didn’t show, and after about half an hour he managed to fall back asleep.   
  
He didn’t wake up so much as snap to attention an hour or so later. Stephen was breathing hotly down his neck, one of his legs wedged in between Jon’s own. Jon could hear his heart thumping loudly in his ears, feel pinpricks tingling all the way down his spine to his ass, and he was as hard as a rock.  
  
He started, and the movement caused him to brush his cock against Stephen’s leg. He forced himself to stay still. Seriously, what the fuck?  
  
It came back to him in a rush: he’d been dreaming, a dream that had heavily featured being fucked. His cock throbbed at the thought, and he bit back a moan.  
  
It had been forever since he’d had a dream like that. He might have been happy that it was coming back, if he’d had it on any night he hadn’t been requested, if it hadn’t been based on so many other nights like it.  
  
What the fuck was wrong with him?  
  
It was one thing when he got turned on during it. That was all down to defense mechanisms and other biological shit that didn’t rely on pesky things like consent. The heart and mind might want to run away screaming, but the dick knew what it wanted and wasn’t picky about how it got it.   
  
It was another thing to very nearly have a wet dream about being raped.  
  
He could even pinpoint where different bits had come from. The first time the supe had him ( _“That’s it, push back. Convince me you want this, Jon.”_ ), one of the guards here about three months after he’d arrived ( _He'd gotten fucked against the window, and hadn’t even cared how much it hurt because he hadn’t seen anything that wasn’t part of an estate in years before then._ ), and a visitor from three years ago whose name he couldn’t remember ( _He insisted that Jon come from being fucked, that he could force him and make it hurt._ ).   
  
He felt sick. He felt disgusting. He felt like getting out of bed and running in case it was contagious and Stephen could catch it. That wasn’t an option, though: they were locked in. They worked together, again locked in the same room. There wasn’t anything he could do.  
  
At least his erection was gone. That was something.  
  
Stephen never needed to know any of this. He didn’t, because Jon was a coward, and he needed Stephen. He needed Stephen curled around him at night to sleep so he didn’t go crazy from insomnia, he needed him to talk with in the evening so he didn’t go crazy from boredom, he needed him around during the day so he didn’t go crazy from everything that made up his life. He even needed to be able to help Stephen when he’d been hurt, so he didn’t feel like such a parasite about everything else.  
  
No, he’d keep things going as they were, taking his cues from Stephen as to where that might be. And he’d never let Stephen know that he was so broken.


	16. Servings, Part Five

Nothing very much happened for the next week or so. Stephen’s back healed. Aasif’s mother sent him a ridiculously long letter that made Olivia snigger into her mashed potatoes. Al was requested one night, and turned up the following morning with an angry looking welt across his face. They got their three hours of outside time Saturday afternoon. The McGreevy story ended, and things went back to their usual election year shenanigans. He _did_ get a chance to talk to Sarah, but she didn’t know much more than he did. She didn’t know of anything going on between NewsCorp and Viacom that had had any recent developments: the big fight happening at that moment was between NBCUniversal and NewsCorp, and Viacom didn’t seem to be actively feuding with anyone. That probably meant that it was personal, and that no further information would be forthcoming. It left Jon with very little to do with his time beyond the interview prep and trying to package up all his issues back into whatever dark mental crawlspace they’d been hiding in before.  
  
He more or less managed it by the week’s end, which was good because no sooner had the door swung shut behind them that night then Stephen was kissing him.  
  
Jon kissed back. He wanted to kiss Stephen, wanted to get as close to him as possible. Without conscious thought he found himself guiding Stephen back against the door, one hand cushioning his head as he pressed Stephen against it.  
  
Eventually, Stephen jerked his head to the side with a gasp that sounded like his name. Jon hummed in acknowledgement, busy licking and kissing his way up Stephen’s jaw to his ear.  
  
“Jon,” Stephen said firmly, placing his hands on Jon’s shoulders and pushing him a few inches away. Jon froze, horrified: did he miss Stephen needing to stop?  
  
“I- I really want to suck your cock,” Stephen said in a rush, blushing furiously. Jon’s brain nearly crashed trying to switch gears. “I mean,” he licked his lips nervously. “Can I? Is that going to set you off?”  
  
“Bed,” Jon said, pulling him forwards. “And yes. And no.”  
  
“What?” Stephen asked, confused.  
  
“Clothes off,” Jon said. “Then I’ll clarify.”  
  
“You too,” Stephen said, mock grumbling. “I’m not the one getting my dick sucked here.”  
  
“Oh yes you are,” Jon said fervently, and then stopped. “I mean, if you-”  
  
“I have no problem with having my dick sucked,” Stephen said, scrambling to remove his pants. Jon grinned, and then went back to getting his clothes off.  
  
He stole another kiss from Stephen as soon as he’d pulled his shirt off over his head. Stephen leaned into it, one of his hands coming up to curl around Jon’s shoulder.  
  
“So how do you want to do this?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Are you okay laying down on your side?” Jon checked.  
  
“Yeah,” Stephen said, already shifting to do so. Jon lay down as well, so they were lined up face to crotch.  
  
“This is a really good idea,” Stephen said approvingly.   
  
For an answer, Jon licked a stripe across his balls. Stephen gave a small yelp, so Jon did it again, more slowly.  
  
Stephen shivered, his breath shuddering over Jon’s cock, then Jon felt finger wrap around the base of his cock, and tight, wet, heat closed around the head. Jon’s eyes fluttered closed and he mouthed at Stephen’s balls, guided by pure instinct. He savored the feel of Stephen, warm and living against his tongue. It was as good as the feel of Stephen’s mouth, bobbing tentatively over his cock in tandem with his hand.

Jon opened his eyes, and licked his way up the thick, blue vein on Stephen’s cock. Stephen whimpered, and the vibrations made Jon shudder. He sucked to tip of Stephen’s cock into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the head, teasing the foreskin. Stephen moaned, and the vibrations sent shivers up Jon’s spine. He swirled his tongue around again: Stephen groaned and brought his other hand up cup Jon’s balls, squeezing lightly. Jon’s hip jerked involuntarily, and he let Stephen’s dick slip out of his mouth.  
  
“Stephen,” he gasped. “Fuck, Stephen, you-”  
  
He stopped, gritting his teeth, trying not to thrust into Stephen’s mouth, as the sensation built, sharp and intense, and then he came. Stephen swallowed, at first, then pulled off, a vaguely apologetic look on his face as Jon spurt onto the sheets between them.  
  
Their eyes met. “Jon,” Stephen said, pleading. Jon couldn’t not suck him then, couldn’t help but suck and swallow until his nose was pressed against Stephen’s balls, and he could feel every twitch and throb of his cock as he came down Jon’s throat.


	17. Servings, Part Six

“C’mere,” Stephen said, sometime after Jon had pulled away and caught his breath. Jon shifted, managing to turn himself around so he could flop down with his head under Stephen’s arm. Stephen played with the hairs at the nape of his neck, and Jon let himself drift, listening to the slow, steady thumping of Stephen’s heart beating beneath his ear.  
  
Eventually though, he became more and more aware that they didn’t have very much time before the night cycle began, and that he was laying in the wet spot.   
  
“We should take a shower,” he said into Stephen’s chest.   
  
“Probably,” Stephen agreed, not moving.   
  
“We should take a shower before the hot water cuts out,” Jon amended.  
  
“Yep.”  
  
With more effort than he probably should have had to expend, Jon lifted his head up. “We could share a shower.”  
  
They did. They even managed to finish it before the lights changed, which was something, as Stephen insisted on doing Jon’s hair and taking his own sweet time with it.  
  
After that was finished, Jon wrapped a towel around himself and stripped to sheets off the bottom bunk, replacing them with the ones from the top that were never actually used, and were therefore clean. Stephen handed him his set of sleeping clothes and he got dressed, before fastening the curtains closed and slipping into bed.   
  
“Jon?” Stephen asked, as he curled in closer, one arm thrown over his waist.  
  
Hm?”  
  
Stephen said nothing for a moment, and then snuggled closer, burying his face in Jon’s hair. “Goodnight.”  
  
“Goodnight, Stephen,” Jon replied, threading his fingers through Stephen’s.  
  
He waited. Stephen fell asleep, and Jon wanted to follow, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t relax. Not only was the lazy drowsiness from before missing, but he could feel himself getting more and more tense, with the growing surety that something _bad_ was going to happen.  
  
From there, it was only a matter of time before Jon began to imagine all the things that could possibly go wrong.


	18. Servings, Part Seven

There was the trouble they’d inevitably run into when the NewsCorp people returned. Or sooner- the Time-Warner people were on friendly terms with them. Gossip spread, and while he was pretty sure that a relationship between two slaves wasn’t very high up on the list of things to discuss around the water cooler, it could still come up when talking about the Recap. “Yeah, you know the one they bought to do Helms’ character? I hear he’s fucking the interview prep guy…”  
  
They wouldn’t have any chance to deny it. If the idea took hold, as it seemed to have done for O’Reilly, no one would ever take their words over the opinions of freemen, even if they were being truthful.  
  
From there, there were two different ways it could come back to bite them in the ass: from guests or from employees. Guests would be easier to deal with: name recognition might garner them more attention then was comfortable, but they both knew how to deal with that by now. Worst case scenario, they both got requested by the same person for the same night, which would be pretty awful, but livable.   
  
If one of Viacom’s employees decided to do something about the two of them, then things could very quickly worsen. Riggle was generally good at keeping the guards on a short leash, but every so often there were incidents: the one who fancied she was in love with Olivia last year, or the one who hated Wyatt with a passion two years before that. Both of them had ended up transferring away, but that hadn’t stopped things from getting _really_ bad first. As more people knew they were together, it became more likely that if either of them ever became the focus of someone’s obsessions, the other person would be caught in the crossfire. It also meant that someone could take issue with the relationship itself, because they were two dudes, or because it made their lives less miserable, or anything else that didn’t actually make sense.   
  
And, of course, there was Redstone. He’d never met the guy face to face, but their owner kept an eye on everyone who worked on the Recap, or so Karlin said. If he disapproved of their relationship, that would be the end of it. He and Stephen would be transferred to different rooms and forbidden from interacting outside of work hours. They might even be transferred to different jobs, if he thought they were distracting each other.   
  
He suppressed the urge to shiver, and made a promise to put in a little extra effort into his work from now on. Both he and Stephen had made of point of keeping their work at the same level of quality they usually put out, but that was to keep suspicions from being aroused. Now that they knew it would only be a matter of time, it would be safer to increase it, in the hopes that anyone who was keeping track of such stuff would see it as a valuable result of their relationship.  
  
Of course, this all assumed that Jon was capable of not crossing some line that would drive Stephen all the way back to the top bunk. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain that he _wasn’t_ capable of it. He was pretty fucked up: not that anyone was _not_ fucked up in this situation, Stephen included, but even by the dangerously low standards of slaves, he was not right in the head.   
  
Tonight had given him a pretty good illustration of that, on reflection. Stephen had sucked Jon's cock like he wasn’t sure about his limits. Jon had sucked Stephen's cock the same way he’d sucked cock when the alternative had been getting his eye burned with a cigarette lighter.   
  
It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted it. It wasn’t that the choking terror that colored all his other experiences hadn’t be mercifully absent. It was just- his first instinct was the one that had been beaten into him. He didn’t like that: it felt too much like the supe and the guards and his owners had soaked into his brain, dictating his actions to their tastes even when they were all far, far away from him.   
  
Somehow, he didn’t think Stephen would like that very much either.  
  
As though he could hear Jon’s thoughts, Stephen’s fingers began to twitch where they were still intertwined with Jon’s own. Stephen panted shallowly over the back of neck, rapidly approaching hyperventilation.  
  
Shit. This was one of the really bad ones.

Jon turned over to face him, and Stephen let out a noise that might have been a scream, if he'd had more breath to work with. He pulled him in close, one hand running through Stephen’s hair.  
  
“Wake up, Stephen,” Jon said firmly, loud enough to carry to his good ear. “You’re asleep. You’re having a bad dream. Just-”  
  
Stephen gasped, and tilted his head up to meet Jon’s gaze, blinking rapidly. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, and flopped down on his back, pulling Stephen on top of him. Thank God this position only made him panic when he was trying to have sex.  
  
“You’re okay,” Jon crooned as Stephen trembled, burying his head in the crook of Jon’s shoulder. “It’s just a nightmare, you’re not-”

Stephen shook his head.  
  
Jon switched to something a bit more honest. “You’re safe, right now. I’ve got you. I’m not going to hurt you…”  
  
It took Stephen half an hour to stop shaking. And although he pretended to doze off, Jon could tell that he never managed to go back to sleep that night.


	19. Servings, Part Eight

That set the tone for the next several days. They woke up, went to work, and then came back down to their quarters. They had sex most nights- wonderful sex, that made Jon forget how miserable his life was for a few minutes- they showered, they cuddled, Stephen went to sleep and often had nightmares, and Jon sometimes slept a decent amount but mostly didn’t. It was more or less the same pattern they followed normally, the only change being the sex, the fact that Jon was pretty sure he was sleeping slightly more, and that the worst of Stephen’s nightmares were coming less frequently. None of the Viacom employees had cottoned on to them yet, though he thought that Tim and Olivia might suspect that something had changed between them. Neither NewsCorp nor Time-Warner sent people to the Estate the rest of the month: there was a group from Comcast, but they had a policy about not fucking slaves that weren’t their own personal property which they occasionally enforced, which meant that their visits were generally low-stress affairs.   
  
That state of, if not happiness, then calmness at least, lasted until next month’s schedule was posted in the mess. NewsCorp was going to send a group over for two days towards the end of the month, and as O’Reilly was scheduled for an interview that day, he was sure to be among them.   
  
“Well, that’s nice,” Stephen said, with forced cheer. “Father Martin will be coming around next week.”  
  
Jon managed something that might have looked like a smile, and didn’t call him out on it. Besides, generally speaking, having Father Martin around was good news for Stephen. The Estate had one live-in pastor, who was Presbyterian or Pentecostal or some other type Protestant Christian that didn’t perform the rites Stephen used. He’d go to the services, when it was Christmas or Easter, or some other important holiday, but Jon could tell that he missed have access to a Catholic church. He was always less tense after he managed to attend the right kind of services. It even stopped the nightmares, for a few nights, at least.   
  
Next week seemed very far away that night, when Stephen had one of his worst nightmares Jon could remember, one that didn’t let him wake up until Jon was nearly shouting into his good ear, and keep him shaking hard enough that his teeth chattered for almost a full hour afterwards.   
  
Jon piled all the blankets on top of them and wrapped himself around as much of Stephen as he could, cursing puberty for leaving him so damn _tiny_.   
  
“Sorry,” Stephen mumbled when he’d finally managed to calm down. “For waking you up.”  
  
“I was already-” Jon began, but stopped when he saw the weak smile on Stephen’s face. He rolled his eyes snorted.  
  
“Okay, so that wasn't my best work,” Stephen began, and that startled a genuine giggle out of Jon, which set Stephen off too, so that whatever it was that he was going to say was lost as the two of them laughed.  
  
“We can manage this,” Stephen said, after they’d both settled down again.  
  
“Yes, we can,” Jon assured him. “Point in fact, we _have_ managed it.”  
  
Stephen caught one of his hands and laced their fingers together. “Yeah.”

And they did.  
  
Stephen left early on Sunday morning to go to Church, such as it was, and came back calmer and, contrarily, horny. All of Jon’s smart remarks about having a priest fetish were lost between the feel of Stephen’s teeth scraping along his chest and his mouth closing around the head of Jon’s dick. His good mood lasted into the work week, until the Time-Warner people came and Stephen was requested.  
  
He came back with a ring of finger-shaped bruises around his neck. _No,_ he said hoarsely, in answer to the questions Jon hadn’t been able to voice. _It wasn’t anything to do with us. It’s just the same old bruised ego bullshit we’ve both put up with for years. I’ll be fine. He didn’t even fuck me. I’ll be fine._  
  
It was still three days before he felt comfortable kissing Stephen breathless before he could duck into the shower, and then jerked off while sucking him dry as he sat on the edge of the bed. Stephen was eager and into it, and if Jon had something of a moment when he realized that Stephen was tugging him up so he could reciprocate, then at least it was something that was easily chased away by how hard Stephen kissed him when he realized that Jon had come already.  
  
Actively wanting sex was really weird, after so long of his sex drive being defined as “sex is happening and someone else is driving”.  
  
But it wasn’t weird enough to distract from the dread that grew with every day they drew closer to NewsCorp’s arrival.

Jon woke up the day O’Reilly was due to return to the feel of Stephen kissing his neck. He shivered into full awareness, and then it was like something snapped.  
  
He turned around to face Stephen with an odd, keening cry, and Stephen made a startled sound against his lips as Jon kissed him. He kissed back however, one hand slipping beneath his waistband to grope at his ass. Jon broke the kiss with a low groan, and began to peel off Stephen’s shirt, desperate to touch his skin.   
  
He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He wasn’t even sure he _was_ thinking really, but there was a sense that wherever he touched Stephen now, he couldn’t be hurt later. Nothing could be forced into his mouth when it had been full of Jon’s tongue. He couldn’t possibly come back tonight with bruises on his back after Jon had run his hands down it. His ass would be untouched after Jon had clutched at it, fingers dipping into his crack, and no one could go anywhere near Stephen’s dick after he’d had his mouth all over it.   
  
It was completely ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop.  
  
Stephen moaned and writhed beneath him, leaning into every touch. One of his hands found its way into his hair and stayed there, gripping tightly but not pushing, as Jon touched every part of him there was.  
  
Stephen whimpered just before he was going to come, and Jon moved up from where he’d been licking behind his knee to swallow him down, feeling Stephen pulse against his tongue and lips.   
  
He’d barely pulled off when Stephen pulled him up and curled back around him, nuzzling his neck, one arm thrown lazily over his hips as he jerked Jon off with slow, lazy movements.  
  
Jon came quietly, biting his lip as his come oozed between Stephen’s fingers onto the sheets. Stephen kept nuzzling his neck, pressing tiny little kisses just beneath his jaw line.  
  
“This is going to be bad, isn’t it?” he asked.  
  
“I think it might be, yeah,” Jon told him. “I’m sorry. I just- I wish there was something I could do.”  
  
“You can be there afterwards, assuming we don’t both get requested” Stephen said. “I don’t think we’re allowed any more than that, but we’ve done pretty well with it, so far.”  
  
He knew they’d be lucky if they still got that much. But he kept that thought to himself. “I still wish there was something more.”  
  
Stephen squeezed his arm around his middle, just as the wake-up whistle sounded. “Me too.”


	20. Servings, Part Nine

Jon spent that day completely on edge, barely able to focus enough on his work to have it finished before lunch. The afternoon was a complete waste of time, as Olivia and Wyatt drew everyone but him into a good natured argument about the merits of rebooting the Batman franchise. Even Stephen managed to get in a few good shots about bat nipples, but Jon stayed silent, staring unblinkingly down at the interviews with George Clooney that had been his material today.  
  
This should not affect him this strongly. It was little more than a matter of routine: O’Reilly hurt Stephen, Jon helped him pull himself back together, rinse and repeat every four-to-twelve weeks. It sucked, but it happened. It was their normal, now.  
  
He might be worried that O’Reilly would up his game, but in all honesty he was skirting the regulations as it was. There wasn’t much more he could do to Stephen that he hadn’t done at least once before without, at the very least, losing all access to him and paying a hefty fine.  
  
To be honest, the only thing he could really do was request Jon as well. And the thought of that being damaging was laughable, considering the regulations prohibited most of what had been normal at his last position, including the treatment he’d gotten on his first day from some of the more violent slaves. He didn’t want Stephen to see him, when he was being used like that, but… he might be able to protect Stephen, if they were both requested. Maybe he could find a way to keep O’Reilly’s attention on himself.  
  
Even if he couldn’t, it would be livable. They’d survive. They’d recover. They’d probably end up doing it again sometime in the next four-to-twelve weeks, but they’d get used to it, sooner rather than later.  
  
He supposed he could be so freaked out because Viacom was likely to find out about them, and they would likely need to deal with the fallout of that while they were still picking up the pieces from the visit itself. And he was worried, no doubt about it, but it wasn’t where his brain jumped to whenever he wasn’t forcing it to process information about Clooney’s various philanthropic ventures. Instead he kept looking at Stephen out of the corner of his eye and wondering if he’d be okay.  
  
It was a ridiculous question. Of course Stephen wouldn’t be okay, if you defined okay as anything better than ‘able to function’ he probably wouldn’t be okay until after his term was up. But Stephen was tough enough to make it this far, and do it without losing his grip on the sense of humor that had gotten him this relatively comfortable position in the first place. He would be able to weather yet another O’Reilly temper tantrum. He’d be able to weather the Viacom tantrums too.  
  
Not that there was another choice.  
  
“Hey, Jon,” Tim called, waving his hand under Jon’s nose. Jon started, blinking up at him. “It’s dinnertime, let’s go.”  
  
Jon pushed the papers into a pile for the cleaners to pick up later, and left with the others, trying to shake himself out of that shitty headspace. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.  
  
The guards came into the mess while Jon was busy mechanically pushing food into his mouth. He dropped his fork on his plate, and waited. Sure enough, they walked straight over to their table, handed him a collar, and told him to report to O’Reilly’s guest room when he’d finished dinner.  
  
They skipped over Stephen, whose eyes darted around the room in increasing confusion as the guards filed out again. Jon’s reaction was more understated. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, and could feel his hands shaking, but it was all very removed, buried under shock. And then, with a weird, thin sort of calm came down between himself and the rest of the world, so he put the collar into his lap and took another drink of watered-down apple juice.

“Jon…” Stephen began.  
  
“I’m fine,” Jon said. “He can’t possibly do anything I'll haven’t had worse of.” Huh. That didn’t sound grammatically correct. “I’ve had worse,” he corrected himself.  
  
He took another drink out of his apple juice, and nearly choked when he momentarily forgot how to swallow. That… did not bode well for the rest of his night.  
  
 _Okay Jon, freak out time’s over. Pull yourself together._

He took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, and then began to eat again.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want a pill?” Stephen asked.  
  
“No,” Jon replied. “They _really_ don’t work on me.”  
  
He shoveled down the rest of dinner and finished his juice. _Let’s get this over with. The sooner the better._ But once he was finished eating, he found himself teetering on the edge of panic again, unable to move.  
  
 _Sitting here isn’t going to make this better. Just get up. Get going._  
  
“I’ll-” Stephen began. Jon started, and looked up. “I’ll wait up for you.”  
  
Jon took another deep breath. _Get through this. Get back to Stephen._  
  
That seemed manageable.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, and got up.


	21. Servings, Part Ten

The worst part of nights like this was the wondering. It didn’t matter how much or how little he knew about the people who requested him, there was never enough information for him to be able to stop his imagination from going wild. Tonight was no different. He knew all about O’Reilly: he knew this was going to be violent and personal, and he could guess that it would be all about Stephen. Beyond that he just didn’t know: Stephen had come back from nights with O’Reilly with such a wide variety of injuries that about all Jon could say with any certainty was that it was going to hurt.   
  
He put on the collar just before the elevator dropped him outside the guest hall: he passed the guards- one who nodded, one who smirked- and the public bathrooms, up half a flight of stairs that nearly left him winded, and then on to Room 801 where O’Reilly was staying that night. He knocked on the door.  
  
“Who is it?” O’Reilly demanded.   
  
Jon winced. He sounded angrier than usual. “It’s Jon, sir.”  
  
“Well come in.” O’Reilly demanded impatiently.  
  
Jon entered, his heart pounding.   
  
“Clothes off,” O’Reilly ordered, before Jon had even closed the door.   
  
He took off his clothes, putting them in a pile by the door.   
  
“Come over here. Put your hands out.”  
  
Jon shuffled forwards, and held out his hands. It wasn’t surprising when O’Reilly pulled out a pair of handcuffs from the desk drawer and fastened them on his wrists. He’d needed to rub salve on Stephen’s wrists after O’Reilly was done with him more than once.   
  
O’Reilly pulled on the connecting chain, forcing him to walk over the bed. He looped it over the bedpost, where it caught on a hook about three inches from the top. The bottom fell out of Jon’s stomach- it wasn’t quite the same position he’d taken at the whipping post, but it was too close for comfort.  
  
He couldn’t be planning on given Jon that flogging he’d threaten him with, could he? It was against the regulations, he’d lose all potential rights to Jon and have to pay a fine.   
  
Which, actually, he might be completely okay with, Jon realized.  
  
O’Reilly moved behind him as Jon tried not to hyperventilate. Then he ran a hand, almost reverently, down Jon’s back, and around his hip.  
  
“I thought I noticed these the other night,” O’Reilly said. “Now how did you get them?”  
  
“I was whipped, sir,” Jon replied.  
  
O’Reilly wrapped a hand around his neck- he didn’t squeeze, but the threat was enough to make Jon freeze up.  
  
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” O’Reilly said, over the sounds of him fumbling with his belt. “What were the infractions you committed?”  
  
Jon’s heart was pounding so hard O’Reilly could probably feel his pulse against his fingers. “It was mostly quota infractions, sir. I get sick easily, and it was sometimes difficult to get into work on time, and then keep up the required pace, sir.”  
  
“Really?” O’Reilly said, skeptical, his hand leaving Jon’s throat to trail down his back once more. “That was responsible for all of this?”  
  
“No, sir,” Jon replied. It was no use lying. Anyone who requested him had to be informed of that incident, and given the chance to choose someone else.   
  
O’Reilly’s hand withdrew, and was replaced by a stinging welt across his back as he brought his belt down. Jon flinched.   
  
“Do you enjoy being beaten? Is that it?”  
  
“No, sir,” Jon said, bracing himself. O’Reilly’s belt hit him again.  
  
“Then answer the question. Tell me what you were whipped for.”  
  
 _Please don’t._ He thought. _Please don’t make me talk about it. I can’t even think about it for too long without being sucked right back there._  
  
He didn’t say it though. There was no chance that O’Reilly would let it drop. As though in confirmation, there was another crack as the belt came down on his ass.  
  
“I’m waiting,” O’Reilly said.  
  
Jon took a deep breath and clutched at the bedpost to stop the chain from clattering. He was shaking. He felt dizzy, sick.   
  
_Just tell him as little as you can._ Jon told himself. _As little as he’ll let you get away with. You can take a beating if that’s the price, just tell him enough to make him satisfied with dropping it and you won’t get lost in your head again._  
  
He took another, even shakier breath and began.

“I- I panicked, sir. And I punched the supe. He fell down a flight of steps and- and I was stilled panicking, sir, so I tried to make a run for it,” Jon said.  
  
He waited. The belt didn’t come down, but O’Reilly asked. “And how many lashes did you get for that?”  
  
He’d have preferred the belt. “Fifty, sir.”  
  
“All at once?”  
  
“No, sir.” He would want more information, Jon knew. “I had the first thirty after the sentencing, sir. Then I was in solitary for a month, and after that I took the other twenty, sir.”  
  
“A month in solitary. I’m surprised you didn’t go insane.”  
  
He had, actually, if mostly temporarily. The memory reared up, dark and gaping, to swallow him whole. Jon clutched at the bedposts, and spoke through gritted teeth.  
  
“I wasn’t as alone as I was supposed to be, sir. I’d hurt the supe: the guards were pretty pissed off, sir.”  
  
The room was dissolving, and Jon knew that any minute know he’d be back in that cell, in that moment, when it hit him that they’d added ten years to his sentence, _ten years_ , and they’d taken away the possibility of parole, he had fourteen years now, fourteen years of this, of having to live with being beaten and fucked and ordered about, of being a _thing_ and he couldn’t stand it, he was trapped and he couldn’t stand it, the walls were closing in and he couldn’t breathe and he clawed at himself, fingernails digging into his skin, because he was _trapped_ and there was no way out-  
  
There was a sharp, sudden pain in his shoulders. Jon blinked, the bed post swimming back into focus. His legs had given out, and he was hanging by his wrists. He tried to get his feet back under him when the belt came down on his shoulders and he realized his back hurt, a lot. O’Reilly must have been beating him for a while.  
  
He forced himself up, and managed to stay standing by leaning most of his weight forward on the bed post. He was still shaking too much to trust his legs. The belt came down again.  
  
“I’m sorry, s-sir,” Jon managed to get out. It worked better than any other variant of _Please, stop_ he’d tried. Sure enough, the belt didn’t come down again.   
  
“What made you panic?”  
  
 _Fuck, no._ Those memories were hardly any better.   
  
_You can’t avoid this. Don’t keep him waiting. Just push past it._  
  
“He wanted to fuck me, sir.”  
  
O’Reilly laughed at him. The palm of his hand came down on Jon’s ass with a slap, and he gave it a squeeze as Jon bit back a whimper.   
  
“You?” he said, still laughing. “One look at you and I could tell you were a slut for cock.”  
  
Jon’s stomach wrenched, the self-loathing as painful as it was familiar.  
  
“It was during the work day, sir. I needed to be at my mark in five minutes,” Jon told him. “He was in charge of overseeing punishments when the performers weren’t up to standards, sir, and he- he was very- he came up with all these- he terrified me.”  
  
He stopped. The supes’ voice whispered in his head _Scream and cry all you want Jon, you know how it turns me on, but don’t think it’s going to help._  
  
O’Reilly’s hand was still on his ass, his thumb sweeping lazily, unconsciously, into Jon’s crack. _If you’re going to fuck me, then just fuck me. Please don’t ask any more questions._  
  
“What did he do to you, that was so terrifying?”  
  
Jon moaned, miserable. O’Reilly sounded _interested_ , and it occurred to him that O’Reilly might be hoping that Jon would provide him with inspiration. That thought pushed him over the edge of panic: there was a buzz in his ears, and then a snap, and when he came out the other end he was no longer shaking.

“One time he put a hood over my head and left me tied up with my legs spread in the shower for the guards,” he said flatly. “And then he left me in there for an entire day. None of them used any lube, and I was barely conscious by the end of it.”  
  
That was a fairly safe story to tell. O’Reilly didn’t seem the type to share, so it likely wouldn’t be used against Stephen later. But he needed this to be over, or at least, he needed O’Reilly to stop asking questions. That memory was fairly easy to disengage himself from: he’d spent so long going over it afterwards, trying to figure out _how long?_ and _how many?_ and _which one left me this bruise?_ that all the emotion had already been bled out of it. He didn’t have many memories like that, clear enough to recall and distant enough to speak about, and he’d run out soon, even if he was okay with giving O’Reilly more potential ammunition.  
  
He wasn’t though. He _really_ wasn’t and he was just stalling now. He knew what he needed to do to end this quickly.  
  
O’Reilly was still fondling his ass. He leaned into the touch, slightly, hoping it seemed involuntary. He also hoped the revulsion he felt trying to claw its way up his throat didn’t show.   
  
“Are you going to fuck me, sir?” Jon asked. His face was burning.   
  
O’Reilly laughed at him again. “You’re that desperate for it, aren’t you?”  
  
He pressed himself against Jon, towering over him, his cock hot and solid as it rubbed against Jon’s ass even through O’Reilly’s pants. He could feel his pulse beating in his cock in response, and he hated himself.   
  
“Yes, sir,” he replied, because it was true. He was that desperate for this to end.   
  
“You probably enjoyed it, didn’t you: having an excuse to take it up the ass all day long? How many times did you come during that ‘punishment’? Hmm?”  
  
He reached around Jon and gave his dick a squeeze. It jumped at the contact, and Jon whimpered. “Twice, sir,” he replied, choking on the humiliation.  
  
O’Reilly squeezed his dick again. “Well, I’m not going to fuck your ass tonight.”  
  
Jon nearly panicked- _no, no that couldn’t have failed_ \- but then he realized that O’Reilly was unhooking the chain from the bedpost. He was turned around and made to kneel, and he couldn’t help the wave of gratitude that swept through him.  
  
He could handle cocksucking. And then this would finally be over.


	22. Servings, Part Eleven

More to have something to do than anything else, Jon gathered the slack in the chain up into his hands. O’Reilly pulled down his pants and underwear and then grabbed a fist-full of Jon’s hair. He opened his mouth and then-  
  
Well. Cock.  
  
He closed his eyes and his brain skittered sideways. Physically he stayed where he was, his jaw cracking as O’Reilly pushed his dick down Jon’s throat. Mentally he was with Stephen.  
  
He couldn’t separate himself entirely: he was terrified of what might happen if he ever managed to lose all awareness of what was being done to him. It probably wouldn’t have an effect on what was actually done to him, but it would be worse, so much worse, to wake up not knowing what had happened to him at all. It was much safer for him to just change the context surrounding what was being done to him.  
  
So it became Stephen’s hands in his hair, and Stephen’s cock in his mouth. He was kneeling on the floor in front of their bed, and Stephen was fucking his face like he’d asked him to (and he’d have to ask him to, Jon knew, Stephen was too considerate to try something with so much potential to remind him of worse times unprompted). That made it okay to feel a spike of heat when his hair was pulled on, okay for his cock to throb even as he was choking.  
  
(He probably shouldn’t jerk off, though, O’Reilly might get angry at him, and he was in no position to weather any more of that.)  
  
He pictured Stephen propped up on his elbows, his hair mussed, dark-eyed and shiny with sweat. He imagined making Stephen lose all self control and thrusting into his mouth with complete abandon (O’Reilly better be finishing soon, he was having a hard time breathing like this). He pictured Stephen coming, open and vulnerable and _his_ as he swallowed around his cock.  
  
O’Reilly pushed him away, and Jon took a moment to center himself. _It’ll be over soon. He’ll take away the collar, and then you can have a nice long shower before you go back to your quarters. You’ll be safe there, Stephen is waiting up for you. You’re almost through._  
  
Jon let out a slow careful breath, and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his erection, red and leaking precome on his thigh. He ignored it, turning his attention to where O’Reilly was tucking his shirt back into his pants.  
  
O’Reilly stood up and curled his fingers under the collar. “Up,” he ordered.   
  
Jon got unsteadily to his feet, confused. O’Reilly led him over to the desk.  
  
“Get down, on your back,” O’Reilly ordered, opening one of the drawers. “Hug your knees to your chest.”  
  
Jon complied, fear pounding through him again. He hated being in this position- it had been the supe’s favorite- _Are you really crying, or are you trying to fool me? Well, if you are I’m going to give you something to cry about, and if you aren’t then you can cry harder._ \- and he’d been pretty successful at ignoring his back up until now, but ow, seriously _owjesusfuck_ , it hurt-  
  
O’Reilly was going to fuck him now. He knew that. He must have decided to fuck his ass after all. He must have taken a blue pill before Jon arrived, too. He wouldn’t have guessed that- generally speaking, most guys didn’t have the patience for an interrogation after taking one of those. Maybe the pill didn’t work as advertised on him either. Or maybe he’d jerked off before Jon got here.  
  
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this was going to be bad, and the sooner he disengaged the better.   
  
He willed himself away just as O’Reilly settled into the chair as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.


	23. Servings, Part Twelve

He imagined Stephen again. He imagined that they’d met as freemen, mingling in some bar after Jon had finished his set. It would have been a good night: he would be feeling successful and happy, and more than a little buzzed. Stephen would have caught his eye, would have been funny and interested, and Jon would have decided to through caution to the wind and invite him back to his motel. They would have kissed, and he knew how that felt now, could recall with perfect clarity how Stephen’s tongue felt curled against his own- and then there was the (cold and slimy) feel of lube being squeezed into his ass directly from the tube, so he fast-forwarded mentally, to he and Stephen, naked, Jon on his back with his legs bent and spread apart, Stephen (not the supe, not the supe, not the supe) kneeling between them.  
  
One finger pushed in (that was a surprise, he thought O’Reilly didn’t do that), and he could imagine that, easily, with Stephen. There would be a lot of foreplay involved if Stephen fucked him. He would probably be fingered pretty thoroughly (in went the second finger, alongside the first before they spread apart, and Jon nearly moaned), Stephen making absolutely sure that it wouldn’t hurt when he fucked him (a third finger now, and wasn’t that a bit excessive?- but he hardly cared, it felt too good, even the slight burn from the way it made him stretch was too good, his hips were twitching and he couldn’t hold back, he didn’t _want_ to hold back). He imagined it, Stephen’s fingers up his ass, moving slowly in and out, searching for the perfect angle to hit Jon’s prostate until Jon was right on the edge and (four fingers, and no, he knew what this was, and _no_ )-  
  
Jon’s eyes snapped open, and he craned his neck to see past his erection (still flushed red and leaking, of course it was, he was horrible) to look at O’Reilly. O’Reilly noticed him shifting, and looked back, smirking.  
  
“I’m sorry sir,” Jon begged. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, sir-”  
  
O’Reilly’s fingers curled inside him, trying to double back out, and it was too much, he couldn’t take it. Jon screamed; he felt himself tear, and a thin trickle of blood begin to drip out of his ass.  
  
“I thought you were desperate for it.”  
  
Jon sobbed in response, tears welling up and choking any hope he had of saying something to stop this. O’Reilly uncurled his fingers, brushing against Jon’s prostate as he did so. His erection, which had started to flag a bit when he’d started bleeding, twitched and grew again.   
  
Jon sobbed again, shaking all over. He _hurt_ and he was _disgusting_ , and fuck, God, please, _just make it stop_.  
  
 _Don’t struggle, don’t move, just let him take what he wants…_  
  
He felt O’Reilly’s hand withdraw, and then felt his thumb tucked along with his other fingers as he pushed back in. Jon screamed again.  
  
“Shut up,” he said, rocking his hand in and out about half an inch. The sound of it was horrible, wet and squelching. “You should be thanking me, for thinking about your faggy tastes.”

It was too much. Jon was _gone_ , buried under his memories, the supe crouched between his legs, carving into his thighs with his pocketknife, _There would be no need for this if you could just show me you were grateful_ , he was tied down, dry-mouthed, unable to even sweat and dying, _I’d give you some water if I thought you could thank me for it_ , he could smell his pubic hair burning, he muscles twitching uncontrollably, the only thing louder than the battery’s hum was _Do you really mean that or are you just trying to weasel out of your punishment?_  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Jon forced out, trying to turn his sobbing into speech. It didn’t matter, in that moment, who was hurting him or where he was, if he could just convince them to _stop_.“Thank you, sir. Thank you sir. Thankyousir.”  
  
 _Let me go._ He meant. _Let me go._  
  
O’Reilly managed to push his hand in to the wrist, and then he bent his fingers again. Jon felt his knuckle press again his prostate, throwing him out of his memories so he could search out O’Reilly’s face again. He was sneering, and as Jon watched he pushed his free hand flat again Jon’s erection and pressed it into his stomach, pressing up against his prostate at the same time. Jon came, hard, spurting all over his own chest.  
  
The disgusted look on O’Reilly’s face matched his feelings perfectly.


	24. Servings, Part Thirteen

O’Reilly went into the bathroom after he extracted his hand. Jon heard him running water in the sink. He stayed as O’Reilly had left him: cuffed hands still clutching tightly at his knees, tears running down his face, blood oozing out of his ass, come drying on his chest, and shaking like a leaf all over.  
  
Eventually O’Reilly came back, unlocked the handcuffs, and handed Jon a bottle of cleaning fluid and a roll of paper towels.  
  
“Clean this mess up.”  
  
He walked away without another word, and pulled out a suitcase from under the bed. Jon gingerly eased himself onto his feet, as O’Reilly began to rummage through it.   
  
It hurt. Pretty much everything hurt right now, but standing up made him feel like a spike had been hammered into his tailbone.   
  
“Get to it,” O’Reilly snarled, and walked back into bathroom, a bundle of clothes and a bad of what was probably toiletries in his arms. He slammed the door. Jon flinched.  
  
Then he took a deep breath and got to work.   
  
There was less blood than he was expecting- still more than he was comfortable with, but ultimately more of a splatter than pool. Some of his come (filthy) had ended up on the desk lamp, and he wiped that down too. Then he dabbed a clean paper towel between his legs (fuck it _hurt_ ) so he didn’t dribble all over the floor.   
  
From there it was a matter of waiting. Jon disposed of the soiled towels, put his hands flat down on the desk, and leaned forward on them. His shoulders hurt, which reminded him that his back hurt, and despite the fact that he wasn’t putting his full weight down on his feet, his entire backside throbbed. Jon blew his nose on one of the clean paper towels so he could breathe out of it, and focused on doing just that in the hope that it would stop the black spots from dancing in front of his eyes.  
  
O’Reilly was out of the bathroom within minutes, but the time stretched out for Jon like hours before the door swung open again. For a moment it looked like O’Reilly was going to ignore him, and then he turned around and said, as though he wanted Jon to think the idea had just occurred to him “Oh, right. Your collar.”  
  
He motioned Jon over and Jon went, painfully. O’Reilly undid his collar and gave him a (stinging, ow, God, _just stop touching me_ ) slap on the ass, saying “Get out of here.”  
  
Jon gathered up his clothes and left, feeling light-headed and weak.  
  
He managed to make it down the stairs before he passed out.


	25. Servings, Part Fourteen

He woke up in the recovery ward about a day or so later. It didn’t last very long- just a few minutes, enough time to puzzle out the fact that he was somewhere vaguely medicinal and that his brain was working like it did on really good painkillers, and then he fell asleep again.   
  
The next time, he was awake long enough to remember all that, and realize that the inside of his mouth tasted like death, before drifting off again.  
  
The third time, he managed to think of signaling a medic or something, and sure enough, the disturbingly cheerful guy who gave them all their drugs noticed he was awake shortly after he tried to clear his throat out enough to speak. He brought Jon some ice cubes to suck on, and he finished three before nodding off again.  
They took him off the good drugs after that, and things got decidedly shittier.  
  
He still hurt, though it was mostly a dull throb that flared up whenever he tried to move. The only thing he knew for certain about what the damage had been was that his ass was full of sutures. He gathered, from the conversations people kept having over his head, that it had been bad enough to consider pressing suit, but that they were unsure as to whether or not they would win the case, as apparently there was a loophole somewhere and thus the possibility of a countersuit. O’Reilly had been allowed to go about his business as usual while they were deliberating, and was no longer on the Estate.  
  
Whether ‘business as usual’ included fucking Stephen, Jon didn’t know. Stephen wasn’t here, which only told him that he hadn’t been seriously injured. He knew Stephen wouldn’t visit: as long as their relationship was relatively unknown, the less attention they drew to themselves the better. It was the same reason Jon didn’t ask after him.  
  
That didn’t stop him from worrying, if for no other reason than that there was nothing else to do but stare at his IV drip all day long.  
  
He was bored. There wasn’t so much as a terrible romance novel or trashy magazine available for him to try to distract himself with, and with the good painkillers gone, he was sucked right back into the same old routine of worrying himself through the night, with the added bonus that he spent his days worrying as well. It was a problem, and it could develop into a huge problem: he knew that with the same kind of certainty passengers on an out of control train knew that they could all very likely crash and die. When he worried, he picked things apart, as he picked things apart he found more and more to be angry about, and when he was angry he acted impulsively. All of the little tricks he’d learned that would minimize the danger he was in were suddenly forgotten, and he began acting in accordance to the letter of his orders and against the spirit of them, if he wasn’t defying them outright. It wasn’t something he could prevent, really, only something he could forestall.  
  
They wouldn’t keep him here any longer than they needed to. Right now he was just sucking in resources with no output whatsoever, which he knew Redstone would hate, so it was only a matter of time before he was put back to work. All he needed was to be able to keep himself calm until that happened.  
  
He began to ban himself from thinking about certain things, whenever he noticed that he was getting frustrated. It more or less worked, the less being Stephen and the more being most everything else. Stephen kept cropping up, whether it was Jon worrying about him, or Jon wanting him to be there, if only to tell him what ridiculous things were going on in the news and relieve the tedium. There was no getting rid of him, probably because Jon didn’t really want to.  
  
So he was more or less tense, when Riggle came to take his statement five days after O'Reilly had requested him.

“Congratulations!” he said as he dragged a chair over to Jon’s bedside. “I hear you’re getting out today.”  
  
“I-” That was news to him. “Thank you, sir.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Riggle replied, clapping him on the shoulder. Jon winced, and he pretended not to notice. “Now for the really fun part.”  
  
“Which part is that, sir?” Jon asked, trying to keep his face neutral. Riggle was something of a contradiction: on the one hand, he had full (and terrifying) authority to hand out the severest of punishments whenever he wanted, and wasn’t shy about reminding them all about it. On the other, remind them was all he ever did without provocation, and right now Jon was more inclined to be annoyed about that rather than grateful.  
  
Riggle pulled out a notepad and pen. “I need you to tell me what happened between you and O’Reilly.”  
  
Jon felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn’t needed to put that night on his list of things to avoid thinking about. He’d known, before it had even ended, that it wasn’t something that would be healthy for him to contemplate.   
  
_Don’t struggle._  
  
“What do you need to know, sir?” His hands were shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was terror or anger: he wanted to strike out or hide away. More importantly, he did not want to answer any more questions.  
  
He laced his fingers together, and held them in his lap.  
  
 _Don’t move._  
  
“What went up your ass, exactly?”  
  
“His hand, sir.”  
  
“And how did he get it up there, exactly?”  
  
Jon made a series of bewildered noises that resembled the word “didgeridoo.”  
  
Riggle looked up from his pad. “Did he just shove the whole thing in, or..?” he clarified.  
  
“No,” Jon replied quickly, before he could begin to imagine how bad _that_ would have been. “He- there was lube. Just about enough lube for a dick. Not-uh.” His became aware that his hands were fluttering in the air between them, and he forced them to clench back together against his stomach. “Not enough. For a hand. Even though he worked his fingers in there first. Sir.”  
  
 _Just let him take what he wants._  
  
Jon took a deep breath in, and was almost relieved when Riggle’s next question wasn’t how he knew how much lube there needed to be before he could be fisted.   
  
“Was that all that was done?”  
  
Almost. Not quite. He’d be relieved when this was over, when there was nothing pushing him towards making a choice between lashing out or running away.  
  
“No, sir,” Jon told him. “He beat me, and I sucked him off.”  
  
 _Don’t think about it._  
  
“Before or after he-”  
  
“Before, sir,” Jon cut him off. There was a beat, then another, and then Riggle seemed to decide to let it go before Jon could decide that he might as well let himself panic.  
  
 _Don’t engage with it._ He reminded himself angrily.  
  
“What were you hit with?”  
  
“His belt, sir,” Jon replied.   
  
Riggle scribbled something down on his pad that seemed to involve more many more words than Jon’s answer.  
  
 _Just let it happen._  
  
“Well, I think that’s all I’ll need. Welcome back, and remember to stay out of trouble.”  
  
“I will, sir,” Jon replied.  
  
 _Don’t fight. You’ll survive._  
  
Jon looked down at his hands. There were little half moon marks carved into their backs where his nails had dug in, but they’d stopped shaking.  
  
That was close. The last time he’d felt like this was in the weeks leading up to him punching the supe, and that was the worst decision he’d made in his life, with the possible exception of the one to buy the weed that had landed him in service in the first place.

The medic came in about an hour later, carrying a clean set of clothing and three bottles of pills.   
  
“This is stool softener,” he said, holding up a bottle a grinning broadly. “This is antibiotics, and this is painkillers. There are only two in there, and if you need more you’re going to have to come see me. Don’t think about hoarding them, we can tell if you aren’t taking any. Don’t get any ideas!”  
  
 _Well. That’s the cheeriest caution against suicide I’ve ever gotten._ Jon thought, watching as the medic rocked back on his heels, beaming.  
  
“So I can go, sir?” he asked.  
  
“Get dressed first!” he advised. “I’d also recommend going to your quarters and washing up first. If you hurry you won’t miss dinner.”  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Jon said, reaching for the clothes.  
  
The medic handed them to him, and put the medication down on the foot of the bed. “Come and find me if you start bleeding again! And remember, you’re on restricted duty until the sutures come out, so if anyone tries to jump you, refer them to me!” he said, and then left.   
  
Jon didn’t bother responding, opting to dress and leave as quickly as possible.  
  
He might have moved too quickly.   
  
By the time he reached his quarters his back was radiating pain. He stripped off quickly, and was relieved to find that there wasn’t any blood inside the pants. He reached behind himself to check, and confirmed that there wasn’t any blood coming out.   
  
His asshole was… bigger than it should be, at present, but there was no blood coming out of it.  
  
He took a shower, luxuriating in the hot water and the knowledge that it wasn’t going to cut out any time soon. He got dressed, and when bending over to pull up his pants caused him a great deal more pain than he was willing to put up with, he caved, and tossed one of the pills down his throat.   
  
It was at about this time that he remembered that he hadn’t brushed his teeth in the better part of a week. He took care of that, and by the time he was finished with that a wave of exhaustion had hit him.  
  
The bed was comfier than he recalled, and smelled faintly of Stephen. He was asleep within minutes.


	26. Servings, Part Fifteen

Jon snapped awake when the door opened. There was moment of overwhelming déjà vu as Jon pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and Stephen stood there, looking shocked but unmolested.  
  
The door locked behind him with a small click.  
  
“Jon,” Stephen croaked. “You’re…”  
  
He sat down heavily on the bed, staring.  
  
“Hey,” Jon said.   
  
Stephen crumpled, burying his head in the crook of Jon’s shoulder, one hand clutching at the fabric on the back of Jon’s shirt. Jon clung back as gently as he could, mindful of the fact that he didn’t know if Stephen had any injuries, or where they might be.

Stephen was frantic, his breath puffing over Jon’s neck, and Jon pressed a kiss into his cheek and moved one hand up to card through his hair, trying to calm him. He would have been content to stay like that for hours, but then Stephen’s arm slipped a bit too far down and he jerked out of his grip with a grunt of pain.  
  
“Sorry,” Stephen, snatching his hands back. “Sorry, you’re hurt, I should have-”  
  
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jon soothed, as much for his sake as Stephen’s. “Just- keep away from my ass, okay? It’s all- all not good down there, right now.”  
  
Stephen nodded, looking distraught.  
  
“How about you- are you hurt, anywhere, right now?” Jon asked.  
  
“ _I’m_ fine,” Stephen said, his eyebrow rising slightly.   
  
“Okay,” Jon said. “Okay. Then this is what we’ll do.”  
  
Stephen laid down on his back, and Jon laid down on top of him, his head pillowed on Stephen’s chest, Stephen’s legs spread and bracketing his own. Jon held on to Stephen’s shoulders. Stephen slung one warm arm beneath his shoulder blades and buried his other hand in his hair, and Jon could feel him relax as Jon settled his weight on top of him.  
  
Jon kept his eyes closed, processing. He’d done a better job at not thinking about this than he'd thought. It felt like he’d forgotten how Stephen could make him feel _safe_ when he touched him the right way, and how much he needed it. It came back to him in a rush, and left him dizzy.  
  
They lay there for a while, Jon soaking in every little sensation like a particularly needy sponge, until Stephen rasped out the words “How bad was it?”  
  
Jon tensed. “He- he put his hand-” Then he stopped himself. He was with Stephen, and Stephen wouldn’t ask him to relive it. He was asking Jon how badly he’d been hurt. “They had to stitch my ass back together. I had bruises all over my back, but they’ve mostly faded, now.”  
  
Stephen made a low, wounded noise Jon could feel tear out of his chest.  
  
“He didn’t request you?” Jon asked.  
  
“I didn’t get a notice of consent,” Stephen replied. “They- I wasn’t expecting one, honestly. There were all these rumors going around, that- that he’d killed you, and it’d been ruled an accident, or he’d bought you to become his own personal property, or he’d crippled you...”  
  
Stephen shuddered. Jon let go of his shoulders and levered himself up so he could look him in the eye.   
  
“Hey,” he said, cupping Stephen’s face with one hand. “I’m still here. I’m still alive.”  
  
He bent down to kiss him, closed mouthed. He felt Stephen’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek as his eyes closed, and his hand still on the base of Jon’s skull.   
  
“Although,” he said, after breaking the kiss. “I will admit that I will not be up to running the marathon this year.”  
  
Stephen chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’ve been able to do that the entire time I’ve known you. In fact, I’d be surprised if you ever could.”  
  
“Hey,” Jon replied, feigning insult. “I’ll have you know that I was very athletic as a young man. I was a _fantastic_ soccer player, as a matter of fact.”  
  
“Really?” Stephen asked, sounded delighted.  
  
“Yes,” Jon told him, genuine wariness creeping into his tone despite himself.

“Well, don’t look at me, I was a D&D kind of guy,” Stephen huffed, mock annoyed. “I stayed well clear of soccer playing jocks like you.”  
  
Jon snickered. “I would have pegged you for one of those drama kids. All colorful and huggy and surrounded by admirers.” Jon rested his head back down on Stephen’s chest.  
  
Stephen snorted. “I was exactly the opposite, actually, once I got into theatre. I wore only black and wallowed alone in my misery. I even grew a _beard_.”  
  
Jon burst out laughing.  
  
“I was the most pretentious person on the planet,” Stephen continued. “I knew it and I enjoyed it. I’m glad we didn’t meet back then, you would have hated me.”  
  
“I couldn’t hate you,” Jon protested. “I mean, I might have thought you were an ass, or were keeping your head _in_ your ass…”  
  
Stephen snorted. Jon grinned.  
  
They stayed there for a long moment, drifting. Stephen’s hand resumed carding through Jon’s hair, and Jon curled his hands back around his shoulders, listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart. He was nearly asleep when Stephen spoke.  
  
“Hey. Tell me to take a shower.”  
  
“Do I have to?” Jon murmured.  
  
“Yes,” Stephen replied. “I skipped yesterday, and now I smell.”  
  
“You smell good,” Jon said, hiding his smile in Stephen’s shirt.  
  
“Not everyone thinks so,” Stephen grumbles. “And also I need to change my clothes.”  
  
“No you don’t,” Jon said.  
  
“Yes, I do.” Stephen grumbled. “You’ll thank me when you wake up without button imprints all over the place.”  
  
Jon rolled off of Stephen. “Well, that’s me convinced.” He waited a beat, and then added “Shouldn’t you be taking a shower now?”  
  
“Cheater,” Stephen grumbled. He got out of bed as Jon grinned at him.  
  
Jon started dozing off halfway through Stephen’s shower, and by the time Stephen crawled back into bed he didn’t have the wherewithal to do more than curl back against him as he usually did.  
  
“Can you sleep like this?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Hm?” Jon asked.  
  
To demonstrate, Stephen curled around him, not quite as tightly as had become normal, but tightly enough to remind Jon why he was on restricted duty.   
  
“Fair point,” Jon said, wincing. Stephen backed off immediately.   
  
“How do you want to-”  
  
Jon rolled over so he was half on top of Stephen. “Okay?” he asked.  
  
“Perfect,” Stephen replied, putting his arm around him.  
  
Jon hummed, and fell back asleep between one breath and the next.


	27. Servings, Part Sixteen

Stephen acted odd the next morning as they dressed, more watchful of Jon than was usual. Jon chalked it up to Stephen coping with fearing that Jon would never come back, and then suddenly having him back with no warning, until Stephen took a deep breath and said “There’s something I should have told you last night.”  
  
Jon turned to face him, a sick worrisome feeling growing in his stomach.  
  
“They released the schedule for next month,” Stephen said.  
  
“And O’Reilly’s coming back,” Jon guessed.  
  
Stephen nodded. “In two weeks. Well, twelve days, so- not quite two weeks.”  
  
"That's sooner than usual," Jon said. “I’ll still be on restricted duty then."  
  
 _He’ll request you,_ Jon didn’t say. _And he’s changed the game, so requesting you doesn’t mean what it used to. He might not even be playing by Viacom’s rules anymore. He could really hurt you._  
  
“Redstone might deny him consent,” Stephen said, as though he could read Jon’s thoughts. “I mean- he hurt you badly enough that you missed work. Redstone probably doesn’t want to risk that happening again.”  
  
He didn’t even sound like he believed it. Jon understood. It wasn’t like it wasn’t a valid theory: it was quite possible that that was exactly what would happen. But this thing with O’Reilly had taken so many weird turns lately, it didn’t feel safe to assume that things would play out in a logical fashion.   
  
Jon just hoped that their actual work was still being valued above the sex. Or, at least, that it was valuable enough for them not to be considered acceptable collateral in whatever kind of game Redstone was playing.  
  
“Let’s stick with our plan,” Jon said. “And try to kick up the quality of our work a bit, okay?”  
  
Stephen nodded mechanically.   
  
Jon walked over to where he was standing and wrapped a hand around the back of his head, tilting it down slightly so that Stephen was looking directly at him.   
  
He summoned up as much conviction as he could: whatever O’Reilly could think up, he’d survived, so Stephen could survive, and if Stephen could survive, then Jon would do whatever he had to in order to put the pieces back together. “We’re going to be okay,” he said.   
  
He was pretty sure Stephen didn’t believe him.

They managed.  
  
Returning was a bit surreal. He wasn’t used to having so many people smile at him, let alone inform him that he was getting tackle-hugged the minute he was healed up enough, as Olivia did.  
  
The first few days at work were physically rough, and less than good on the whole ‘increase the quality of our work’ front. Jon swung between being in too much pain to function properly and being too drugged to function properly, with a very small amount of time in which to actually do anything satisfactorily in between. Stephen hovered, helping him with his work when he’d gotten through his own. He was pretty sure that most of the others had them figured out. Aasif certainly did: he didn’t say anything to Jon, and Jon never brought the topic up himself, but he could tell from the way he would look at them. Jon stopped taking the pills after the third day, and by the fifth day he was able to focus enough to write to his usual standards. He tucked last dose of pain medication in an envelope beneath the mattress, along with the blue pills Stephen had managed to accumulate, just in case they were ever needed.  
  
Jon woke up that night with Stephen hissing in his ear.  
  
“Jon, Jon, wake up.”  
  
“Wazzgoinun?” Jon asked.  
  
“Uh, nothing,” Stephen said, with a slightly-hysterical laugh. “I just- need to get up and you’re kind of on top of me and clinging, so…”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Jon shifted off of him, and as he did so Stephen’s erection brushed against his thigh.   
  
He shivered, watching as Stephen fumbled the curtains open, and made a decision. “Are you not asking me for sex because you think _I_ don’t want it, or because _you_ don’t want it?”  
  
“Because you’re injured,” Stephen replied. His hands dropped from the curtains. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“You know what to do to avoid hurting me,” Jon said. “Don’t pin me down. Don’t touch my ass.” He got up on his knees and crawled over to wear Stephen was sitting, turned expectantly towards him. “There’s still a lot left.” He reached out to run his fingers through Stephen’s hair. “My hands, for example.”  
  
Stephen leaned forward and kissed him. Jon opened his mouth and sucked on his bottom lip. Stephen put one hand on Jon’s shoulder: the other slid under his shirt and up his chest.   
  
They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses and caresses, until Stephen broke a kiss by pulling Jon’s shirt over his head. The rest of their clothes quickly followed, and Stephen laid down on his back.  
  
Jon hovered above him, licking a path from his collarbone to his right nipple, which he sucked between his teeth.  
  
“Oh God your mouth,” Stephen groaned, one hand burying itself in Jon’s hair.   
  
“That’s right, my mouth,” he said, and then licked across Stephen’s nipple. “You want me to suck you off, babe?”  
  
Stephen moaned, and arched up. “Yes, fuck yes.”  
  
“Good.” He shifted lower on the bed. “Because I really want to suck you off.”  
  
Stephen’s cock was hot and hard against the palm of his hand. Jon took the tip of it into his mouth and suck as hard as he could, his tongue finding the sensitive spot just beneath its head and flicking rapidly against it. Stephen groaned, and Jon could feel his toes curling into the mattress against his legs.   
  
Jon took a deep breath in through his nose and began to take Stephen’s dick down his throat, savoring the feel of his length in his esophagus. He looked up at Stephen through his eyelashes.  
  
There were a lot of reasons Jon enjoyed sucking Stephen’s cock- he never would have brought it up, otherwise. There was the sheer smell, taste, and feel of it. There was the way Stephen’s hand was clenched in his hair, not pushing or pulling so much as clinging for dear life. There was the way Stephen’s vocabulary narrowed until it consisted almost entirely of moans and Jon’s name. But this part was his favorite: the way Stephen looked at him, pupils blown, like he was the center of the universe.

He pulled back enough so he could breathe again, and teased Stephen’s slit with the tip of his tongue. Stephen moaned, loud and obscene. He was close: he’d started out close, had woken up close. One of these days, Jon was going to go down on him while he was still soft and then take his time teasing him to full hardness, but not now.  
  
Now, Jon took him in to the back of his throat, and hummed a little. Stephen came with a grunt, and Jon swallowed.  
  
Stephen’s dick softened, and Jon let it slip from his mouth as he pillowed his head on Stephen’s thigh. He gave his dick one good squeeze before Stephen said. “God, Jon, come up here.”  
  
Jon lay down on his side next to Stephen, who turned to face him. He wrapped one hand around Jon’s balls, fingers moving experimentally as Jon cursed and thrust into them. He was still _looking_ at Jon, dark-eyed and adoring. It was even more intense up close.   
  
“You have no idea,” Stephen said. His voice was rougher than it normally was, almost gravelly. Jon shivered. “You have no idea how incredible you look when you do that.”  
  
His fingers left Jon’s balls to wrap around his cock. Jon closed his eyes as his hips bucked forward.   
  
“So fucking gorgeous, Jon.” Stephen leaned in and kissed him. He still had his eyes open, Jon thought: he could feel them on him. Then Stephen’s thumb found the sensitive spot just below the glans, and Jon came.   
  
Eventually, they decided not to bother with clothes, simply fastening the curtain back together, putting a shirt over the wet spot, and piling on the blankets as Stephen fell back asleep. Jon didn’t fall back asleep that night, but he did spend the next two hours relishing the feel of Stephen’s skin against his own.  
  
And then the day cycle began and things settled back into their regular routine.  
  
 _There’s nothing you can do,_ Jon told himself, again and again. It was the most he allowed himself to think. If he followed that line of thought for too long words like _trapped_ and _helpless_ began cropping up and he’d end up on the edge of a panic attack. He’d already had to talk himself down from that ledge once this week. He was in no mood to do so twice.  
  
 _There’s nothing you could do,_ He told himself, and then got back to writing, or eating, or waiting for Stephen’s increasingly violent nightmares to start.  
  
And so they managed.


	28. Servings, Part Seventeen

Stephen didn’t want to go to sleep, the night before O’Reilly was due to arrive. He didn’t say so, but he kept their conversation going with a desperation that spoke volumes. They talked about their lives before service, mostly comparing stand-up to improve. They’d both wanted to break into television, so they’d talked a bit about that: about the talk show that wasn’t going to happen now and freelancing for anyone who was hiring to make ends meet while trying to sell a sit-com. Work, either in terms of current events or the general gossip of the Estate, was off-limits tonight by unspoken agreement, and _no one_ talked about what they were going to do after their term of service was over. That left childhood, which meant that Jon did the bulk of the talking: bullying that was laughable in hindsight, fucking up his bar mitzvah, and the best of his soccer games. Stephen fell asleep as he spoke, and though he didn’t mean to, Jon drifted off shortly thereafter.  
  
He also dreamed again that night.   
  
He dreamed he was tied with his hands stretched painful high above his head, the metal bar tied in between his knees keeping his legs spread open, the hood covering his head muffling his hearing and preventing him from seeing.  
  
He knew where he was though. He couldn’t forget the feel of these tiles, wet and small and alternately cutting into his feet and providing no grip at all as he tried to keep his balance: he was in the guards’ shower. He knew it beyond any doubt, like he knew the man pressing into him from behind was the supe.   
  
Jon screamed. The supe grabbed him by the back of his neck and pressed his face against the wall as he slide all the way in, his balls pressed tightly against Jon’s ass.   
  
“No,” he moaned. “No, no no no, please, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ , please don’t, stop, please no-”  
  
The supe pulled out a few inches, and then slammed back in. He set up a brutal pace, pounding him, hitting Jon’s prostate on every thrust until the pain melted into sensation and he was half-hard. Then the supe came with an obscene grunt, his fingernails digging into Jon’s hips, and left him there.  
  
Jon stood there on his own for a moment, trying to pant in enough breath through the hood, when the next man stepped behind him- the guard who used to terrorize him during his lunch break. He hit Jon, his palm striking his ass, and he did it again and again until Jon’s backside was radiating pain. Then he fucked him. It hurt- it _hurt_ \- but Jon was still hard by the end of it. Even harder, maybe.  
  
He wasn’t very surprised when the guard was replaced by one of the supe’s friends- a tall skinny man Jon had privately thought looked like the evil Spock from the mirror universe. He wasn’t surprised at all when _he_ was replace with the woman who’d fucked him with the hideously large strap-on. Things moved quickly after that, as everyone who had ever fucked him and made it hurt enough to stick out revisited him, one person blending into the next.  
  
He got harder with every person who had him. It disgusted him, and by the time O’Reilly left him he was sobbing as much from that as he was from the pain.  
  
He was alone, for a while. He focused on the cold numbness of his hands, on the scratches on his back and chest, on the way fluid way drying on his thighs- anything so that he didn’t lose all semblance of self-control and start trying to rub himself off against the wall.  
  
Suddenly, he felt the fastenings of the hood being undone. It was pulled off him, and Jon sucked in grateful breaths of clean air.  
  
“Jon?”  
  
It was Stephen. No, please no-

“Jon, I’m going to-” Stephen moved around to his side, and Jon had a good look at his face when he noticed Jon’s erection. He squeezed his eyes shut, and wished the hood was still on. It would hide the way his face was burning.   
  
“What the hell?” Stephen demanded, sounding absolutely revolted.  
  
Jon didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say. He’d ruined this- ruined everything. Stephen was never going to be able to so much as look at him without remembering exactly how worthless he was.  
  
“Are you- do you get off on this?” Stephen demanded.  
  
“Stephen-” Jon began, and then stopped. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask for: _Please don’t hate me._ or _Please get me down from here._ or – it didn’t matter. He had no right to ask for anything.  
  
“What,” Stephen said mockingly. “Do you want a hand with that?”  
  
He wrapped his hand around Jon’s cock, and Jon came, pulsing into his pants and jerking against Stephen’s leg. It took him a moment to register why there were curtains six inches away from his face, and when it did, he had to bite down on his lip until the urge to scream had passed.  
  
Stephen was plastered against him, still mercifully dead to the world. Jon managed to get out of bed without waking him up, and promptly scrambled to get his clothes off and push them down to the bottom of the hamper as quickly as possible.  
  
He cleaned himself off and put on a new set off clothes, and then stood for while, leaning against the sink.   
  
Couldn’t this have waited? Did he really need this reminder about how fucked up he was the night before O’Reilly was returning? He couldn’t even begin to deal with this now.  
  
As though to underscore that fact, he heard Stephen make a short, terrified noise. He went back to bed, and wrapped his arms around Stephen, trying to calm him down. When that failed, Jon held him through the shakes while it sunk in that he wasn’t in any immediate danger of being hurt.  
  
Jon felt guilty: he couldn’t say why, but the feeling grew until the day cycle began.


	29. Servings, Part Eighteen

He was distracted at work that day. It wasn’t as bad as it had been when O’Reilly had last visited the Estate, but it was bad enough that he wished that his job was more like Stephen’s. That way, he could have written most of a sketch out previously, and spent what little mental resources he had to work with today on polishing it, rather than try to read through his material and come up with something that would sound good even coming out of Leno’s mouth all on the same day it was due.   
  
When Ben came to let them out for dinner, he had additional work orders for Sarah, explaining the historical context for the debates in greater detail. The guards passed their table by, and Stephen immediately steered the conversation towards the extended version of the Fellowship of the Ring that was playing tonight.  
  
Jon knew what he was doing, although he wasn’t sure that Stephen was consciously aware of it. If Stephen stayed here for the movie, then he didn’t have to go into the hall. If he didn’t go into the hall, then he didn’t have to run the risk of running into O’Reilly and a last-minute request.   
  
It wouldn’t stop him from waiting, of course. He might get bored, and give up- but he might just get angrier instead.  
  
“No thanks,” Jon said when he was asked if he was watching with them. “I’m tired.”  
  
“Are you okay?” Stephen asked in an undertone as Olivia turned to convince Al to join in.   
  
“I’m fine. I’m just tired. This week took a lot out of me.”  
  
It was true, in a way. He was tired.  
  
He ended up being the only one of their group not to stay. He made his way quickly out of the mess hall (and away from Stephen’s inquiring looks) and down the stairs to their floor, and that’s when he started getting really anxious.  
  
Maybe all that would happen would get to his quarters, talk himself down, and then go back to the mess hall and pretend to have changed his mind. That’s what he wanted to happen. The more he thought about (around) it, the more he was sure that was just about all he could handle.  
  
He wanted to divert O’Reilly’s attention, if he could. Persuade him to put things off, at least. It was a stupid idea, really. He didn’t have it in him, to have any kind of confrontation with a freeman, let alone someone who was as inflexible as O’Reilly. This was a really, really horrible decision he was making here.  
  
He kept walking anyway.  
  
The hallways were devoid of freemen: it was too early for the guards to be on patrol. Jon reached the room, and opened the door.  
  
He’d braced himself for it, but it still felt like a slap when he saw O’Reilly sitting on the bed, collar in hand.  
  
“I’m on restricted duty, sir,” Jon said reflexively. He could have kicked himself. “And Stephen’s out-busy- until late tonight. I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think there’s much for you here.”  
  
O’Reilly studied him. Jon dropped his gaze from O’Reilly’s face to his hands, and the collar they held.  
  
“Liar,” he said.

“Sir?” Jon asked. His heart hammered in his throat.  
  
“If Stephen is busy tonight, then how did I get this?”O’Reilly held up the collar.  
  
“I-It’s not my place to speculate, sir.” Jon replied, still staring at the collar. “But I know that, given what happened last time, you’re on notice as it is, sir. It- it might be for the best if you leave.”  
  
O’Reilly flushed, and stood up. There was a moment when Jon wondered if he’d actually convinced him to go, and then he was back-handed across the face. He just barely managed to avoid falling to the ground.  
  
“Here’s what’s _really_ happening.” O’Reilly caught him by the neck and pinned him to the wall. Jon stared at him, very nearly shaking with terror. “If your owner was going to stop me, it would have happened a long time ago. He’s grateful that I’m keeping insubordinate fucks like you and your boyfriend in line, and even if he wasn’t he certainly wouldn’t risk pissing off a big company like mine over two fags like you.”  
  
He paused. Jon tried to swallow.  
  
“So, you’re going to find your boyfriend. And you’re going give him this.” O’Reilly let go of his throat and pushed the collar into his hands. “And if he’s not here in ten minutes, then I’m going to take it out on him.”  
  
Jon jerked away instinctively. “No- I’m sorry, please, don't hurt him.”  
  
O’Reilly grabbed him by the shoulder, opened the door, and shoved him into the hall. “Ten minutes. Do it.”  
  
The door slammed shut. Jon stared at it for a moment, panicking, and then his time limit sank in, and he pushed it aside to be dealt with later. He took off down the hall, moving as quickly as the sutures would allow, and crashed straight into Stephen.   
  
“Whoa!” Stephen exclaimed. “Jon, what- you look-” Stephen’s hands searched out his own, and found the collar. Jon watched his expression change as the pieces fell into place, and Stephen shut down.  
  
“He’s in the room,” Stephen said.  
  
It wasn’t a question, but Jon answered anyway. “Yes.”  
  
“And he wants me.”  
  
“Yes,” Jon said again. “I- I’m sorry, I tried to talk him into leaving us alone, and it-”  
  
Stephen took the collar from him, and fastened it around his neck.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Jon said again.  
  
“I know,” Stephen replied. He hesitated. “You’ll come right in, when he’s finished, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said. “Yeah, I’ll be right there to help when it’s over.”  
  
“Okay. Okay, I’ll see you then.”  
  
He walked down the hall, opened the door, and walked inside. Jon spent a few minutes, falling apart and putting himself back together, and then followed his footsteps down the hall, and leaned back against the wall opposite the door to wait.

O’Reilly took his time. The guards started patrolling about midway through, and Jon started pacing up and down the hall. The lights in the hall didn’t dim for the night cycle, so Jon wasn’t sure what kind of time it was when the door finally opened and O’Reilly stepped out.  
  
Jon was all the way at the end of the hall when it happened: O’Reilly walked down the opposite way as he left, and Jon thought that he didn’t notice Jon. The door hadn’t quite closed when he reached it, and when Jon pushed it open, time stopped.  
  
Stephen was lying face down on their bed, completely naked. He was very pale beneath the blood that was pooling beneath his back. Jon stared, and before he’d registered that things were moving again he was kneeling by the bed, the door caught open against his ankles.  
  
 _The guards will be by soon,_ he thought, fumbling for Stephen’s pulse. _They’ll see that the door is open, and then they’ll help me get him to medical wing._  
  
He found his pulse: it was weaker than he thought was normal, but present, and steady. Stephen’s neck was rubbed pink where the collar had been, and there was a thin line of come striped down from his hair to where his back began to bleed.  
  
 _He must have jacked off after-_ He didn’t finish that thought. He was too busy swallowing down bile.   
  
Something beeped. He ignored it.  
  
“Stephen,” he said. Stephen’s head turned towards him slightly, one eye opening just a bit. “Stephen, can you-”  
  
There was a loud wailing noise, and Jon jumped. Stephen flinched, attempted to curl in on himself, and then went limp with a scream Jon felt more than heard.  
  
 _The guards will get it,_ Jon thought, and re-focused on Stephen.   
  
“You’re going to be okay,” Jon said, brushing his hair carefully back from his face. He wasn’t sure if Stephen could hear him, even without the siren blaring in the background, but he felt he should try anyway. “We’re going to take you to the medics, and you’ll be okay.”  
  
He wondered what O’Reilly beat him with. He hadn’t noticed him carrying anything extra. The pattern looked like lashes, but the cuts themselves were definitely _not_ made by a whip.   
  
Riggle leaned over him, and Jon jumped again. He hadn't even noticed him coming in.   
  
“What happened?” he demanded. The wailing stopped.  
  
“O’Reilly,” Jon told him. “Sir, please, can we get him to the medic?”  
  
“My men are getting a stretcher,” Riggle said. “Now tell me what happened.”  
  
Jon did, as quickly as possible, as though that could make the stretcher arrive sooner.  
  
“So you weren’t there when this happened?” Riggle asked.  
  
“No, sir,” Jon replied.  
  
Riggle ran his hands through his hair. They stayed there for a while, Jon kneeling on the floor with his hands moving through Stephen’s hair, Riggle standing impatiently over them. Then the stretcher arrived, and Jon stood up and got out of the way.

It occurred to him then that they might just leave him here, locked in with the mattress stained with Stephen’s blood. Something in him snapped at the thought, and his hands started shaking.  
  
“You’re going to need to follow,” Riggle said, and it took Jon a moment to realize that he could only be talking to him. “I’m going to need to ask you some questions about O’Reilly.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Jon replied.  
  
Stephen was carted out, and Jon followed, trailing a step behind Riggle as they made their way to the medic’s.


	30. Servile, Part One

Stephen’s immediate impression upon waking was that he was having another nightmare. He was in the recovery ward, as was Jon, and he’d had variations on this dream more or less every night for the past three weeks. It didn’t seem to be one of the worse ones, at least: he wasn’t strapped into some kind of Clockwork Orange-esque device, Jon was dozing in a chair rather than a bloody corpse, and O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen.  
  
He tried to push himself up to get a better look, and promptly collapsed back on the bed as he suddenly felt like all of the skin on his back had been torn off in one take. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for things to get very quickly very worse.  
  
“Stephen?” Jon said, cupping his face. Stephen let out a startled noise.   
  
“Are you awake?”  
  
Stephen forced his eyes to open. Yes, that was Jon, alive and relatively healthy.  
  
“Hey,” Jon said softly, smiling a little. “Do you know where you are?”  
  
“Recovery ward?” Stephen rasped, and then winced. He hadn’t realized how dry his mouth and throat was.  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said. “Do you want an ice chip?”  
  
Stephen nodded. Jon turned to the side table, and then frowned. “They’ve all melted. Hold on.”  
  
He stood up and left, and Stephen drifted off before he’d grasped what was happening.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long he slept before waking again, but Jon was gone, and the lights were brighter. Other than that, he was still in the recovery ward, still lying on his belly, and his mouth was still dry. He didn’t try to move this time, instead focusing on figuring out what else was going on. There was an IV plugged into his left wrist, for example, and when the medic noticed he was awake, he shot something into it that knocked him out like a light.  
  
He dreamed, then. It wasn’t a good one. He couldn’t remember the specifics, but the generalities were bad enough- O’Reilly owned him, personally, and had taken him for dinner with his family- Stephen’s family, that was, not O’Reilly’s. They’d cooed over how well-behaved and quiet Stephen was, and he’d jolted awake with bile rising in his throat.   
  
It wasn’t the night cycle again, yet, but Jon was back. He helped Stephen turn on his side, brushed the hair back from his face, and gave him and ice cube to suck on after he’d calmed down enough not to choke on it.  
  
It had just about dissolved on his tongue when something occurred to Stephen. “Should you be here?” he asked. “Not that I don’t want you here, but I thought we were- they know, don’t they?”  
  
Jon’s shoulders hunched defensively forward. “They know,” he confirmed. “They’ve known for a while.” He laughed bitterly.  
  
Stephen held out his hand for another ice chip. “What happened?”  
  
“What do you remember?” Jon countered.  
  
Stephen sucked on his ice chip, thinking back. “O’Reilly was really angry. I don’t think he even fucked me. He had his belt off before I ever got there- the middle part of the buckle was filed down so it was sharp. He carved something on my back, I think. He was pulling on my collar a lot. I don’t-”  
  
Jon reached out for his hand, and Stephen let himself stop.  
  
“What happened after?” he asked Jon.  
  
“I found you,” Jon said. “The guards came a short while later, and we brought you up here. Riggle asked me a bunch of questions about you- you and O’Reilly.”  
  
He sent Stephen a guilty look. Stephen squeezed his hand.  
  
“They detained him here for twenty-four hours, while Viacom filed suit,” Jon said. “For, uh, ‘willful and malicious destruction of property’. That’s both us, by the way. What he did to me was still within the twenty-eight day period, so that was thrown in too.”  
  
“That must have made NewsCorp happy,” Stephen said.  
  
“Oh, they’re all falling into line behind him,” Jon informed him. “It- it’s all over the news. We’re the top story.”  
  
Stephen felt something cold settle into the pit of his stomach. “When you say ‘we’…”  
  
“They aren’t using our names, or releasing our pre-service history, but yeah, everyone’s talking about us,” Jon said. “They- they’re making it out to be some sort of gay love triangle.”  
  
Stephen dropped his head down on the pillow with a groan, cheeks burning. Jon ran soothing fingers through his hair, and neither one of them said another word until Stephen drifted uneasily off again.


	31. Servile, Part Two

He woke up again during the night cycle by the horrible, familiar sound of someone choking. He opened his eyes and saw Jon, silhouetted against the bright light from the dispensary. He was on his knees in front of O’Reilly, who had Jon by the hair and was forcing him to take his cock down his throat.  
  
“If don’t want there to be any left over for your boyfriend, you better work harder,” O’Reilly snarled, and Jon choked again.  
  
Stephen couldn’t move. He couldn’t make a sound. It was only with great effort that he managed to close his eyes.  
  
When he opened them again, Jon was shaking him gently by the shoulder.   
  
“Jon?” he asked, and then remembered that O’Reilly was unlikely to be allowed into the Estate- let alone near them- for a good long while yet. “Nightmare?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon confirmed. “It looked like a bad one. Hold on.”  
  
He turned back to the side table, and unscrewed the lid on a thermos. “I asked the medic if I could borrow one of these, to keep the ice chips from melting,” he said, as Stephen looked at it askance.   
  
Stephen nodded, and popped the proffered ice chip into his mouth. He squinted around the ward, not that it did him much good: the lighting was almost nonexistent during the night cycle here, and he was pretty sure his eyesight had gotten worse since he’d entered service. They weren’t allowed glasses- there was too much potential for them to get creative and turn it into a shiv or something, apparently.  
  
Given what O’Reilly had done to his belt that might not be an unrealistic concern after all.  
  
“Looking for something?” Jon asked.  
  
“Just trying to get my bearings,” Stephen replied.  
  
“Well, the bathrooms over there,” Jon said, pointing behind Stephen. “For when they let you off the catheter-”  
  
“Thank you for reminding me that I have a tube in my dick,” Stephen said dryly.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Jon snarked right back. “There’s a surgery out past the bathrooms, and the dispensary’s that way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The night medic is sleeping in there. Beyond that, it’s just me and Fareed.”  
  
He held up a book. Stephen frowned.  
  
“I thought they didn’t allow those sorts of books in the library,” he said.   
  
“They don’t,” Jon replied. “He’s being interviewed by Leno tomorrow. I asked Ben for permission to take the material for the next day’s guests out the night before, on the logic that I might as well do something productive while I worry.”  
  
Stephen’s brain suddenly woke up. Jon was concerned about being seen as productive: was that in reaction to danger, or an attempt to forestall danger?  
  
“What?” Jon asked.  
  
“Have things gotten worse? I mean, now that everyone knows about us- and what O’Reilly did?”  
  
“No,” Jon said. “Though, that might just be because you’re off duty and I’m on restricted duty. For what it’s worth, the guards all already knew- according to Riggle they noticed when we began sleeping together, and just assumed it was euphemistically as well as literally. I’m not sure about the other employees.”  
  
“Five years,” Stephen said, thinking back. “Do you think that might have been why that one guy kept leering at me in the mirror while I was shaving?” _And trying to corner me every other time we crossed paths,_ he didn’t need to add.   
  
“It might have been,” Jon said. “They don’t always need something to use as an excuse, though.”  
  
Stephen shrugged, and let the topic rest. “So they knew, and they would have passed it on to executive office.”  
  
“Redstone sat on the information. There was no reason to leak the information, as we were still keeping on top of our work.”  
  
Stephen looked at Jon: he was tired, drawn, and definitely had more to say. “What else?”  
  
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head. “I think,” he said, and then lifted his head up again. “I think I’ve figured out the game Redstone was playing with O’Reilly. _Think._ It can wait, though, if you’re not up to hearing it now.”  
  
It was a legitimate concern. Medical expertise seemed to indicate that he wasn’t even fit to piss on his own now.  
  
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, and waved Jon off when he jumped up to help.  
  
“Okay,” he said, leaning back against the pillow. “Tell me.”

It made sense.  
  
They- Redstone, the executive office, Viacom, whoever- would have noticed when O’Reilly got in the habit of requesting him, especially when he got in the habit of toeing the line as far as the regulations said about what could and could not be done to rented slaves. They could have stepped in then, but they didn’t.  
  
They seemed to, instead, wait, and collect information. And then they might- _might_ Jon had stressed _this part is largely conjecture_ \- have started to subtly encourage him to cross that line. One of the most damning parts of Viacom’s case against O’Reilly was that he hadn’t had permission to have Stephen that night- he’d had a collar, yes, but the actual, virtually rendered notice of consent wasn't present in Viacom’s mainframe. It was probable that he hadn’t been given permission to have Stephen the time before, either. It could be that they’d given O’Reilly a collar but not the permission some or all of the times he caught Stephen as he left the mess hall for the night as well, if they were trying to encourage him.  
  
It would have made him feel very secure. _He told me that if he was going to be stopped, they would have done it a long time ago._ He would have been downright cocky, after he’d hurt Jon so badly and seemingly gotten away with it.   
  
They probably wouldn’t have planned for their relationship, or O’Reilly’s reaction to it. But once it became clear that it existed and O’Reilly was reacting to it, they would have planned accordingly. _O’Reilly was either about to start trying to play us off each other, or was using me to test if there were consequences if he went further with you._ Jon had said. _He would have taken their lack of action as something that was part of their policy, not part of a plan, and so…_  
  
 _And so he scourged me,_ Stephen had finished for him.  
  
 _Pretty much,_ Jon had said. _So, to them, all that was left was to gather evidence, put together a narrative that doesn’t include their manipulation, and press charges. Encouraged or not, he did break the rules. And they have an absolutely water-tight case against him, on charges that might cost him his career._  
  
There was nothing to suggest that things had been manipulated, of course. Except that they’d always known that they were being manipulated, and Comcast had just sold Viacom an entire Estate, already fitted for television and cinema production.  
  
 _It hasn’t gotten very much attention, because there’s us, which is coming out as O’Reilly’s gay-love-triangle-cum-slave-mutilation-scandal, for everyone talk about, and then the presidential election that’s happening next week._ Jon had informed him. _So, again, I don’t have a lot of information to work with, and this is pretty much all conjecture. But the few commentaries we did hear called it a bargain for Viacom, and Comcast is feuding with NewsCorp over their news divisions, and O’Reilly is NewsCorp’s head newsman, and this could take out O’Reilly. It makes sense._  
  
It did make sense. It made a great deal of sense. It was also something they were completely incapable of trying to prevent from happening again. There was no way they could ever generate enough worth to measure against an entire Estate, none.  
  
 _It’s not likely to happen again,_ Jon had pointed out. _But, you’re right. There’s not anything we can do to prevent it, short of discouraging people from requesting us more than once, and I can’t think of a way to do that that wouldn’t probably backfire._  
  
Stephen mulled that over for a while. Jon handed him the thermos, so he could help himself to the ice chips, and then he finally said. “Well, is your book any good at least?”  
  
Jon laughed, but indulged him. “He seems to know what he’s talking about. The whole thing is about America’s influence on world politics, though, so I might not be the best judge…”  
  
Jon talked about the book for a while, until Stephen started dozing off in spite of himself. Then he put the thermos back on the side table and helped Stephen ease down back down so he could sleep without hurting himself. He was asleep almost before Jon had finished.


	32. Servile, Part Three

He woke up the next morning during the day cycle, and pushed himself back up into the sitting position, which was apparently the medic’s cue to take out the IV and catheter and make him walk to the bathroom.  
  
He managed it, albeit with more effort and shakier legs than he would have liked. He was going to count that as a win.  
  
He got the standard hospital fare of applesauce and toast, and then spent the next hour leaning forward on the edge of the bed as the medic and some woman who must have been the doctor who worked on him discussed antibiotics and bandages to his back.   
  
Then there were several long, boring hours during which Stephen tried very hard to neither fall asleep nor think about what was going on with O’Reilly, and then Jon came back, a book tucked under his arm.   
  
“And who’s tomorrow’s guest?” Stephen asked.   
  
“Jane Fonda,” Jon replied. “They’re still compiling material for me, so I stopped by the library and picked this up for you.”  
  
“ _The Very Virile Viking_?” Stephen read, torn between hilarity and horror. “That sounds like a really awful children’s book.”  
  
“The title lies,” Jon said. “It is, in fact, a really awful romance novel.”  
  
“I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how to take that,” Stephen said.  
  
“Take it as an indication that there were no new science fiction books and the recovery ward is boring as all hell,” Jon said, more seriously. “This, at least, looks entertainingly bad.”  
  
Stephen snorted, and took the book. “ _In the days of old, when men were… whatever._ ” he read dramatically.  
  
“It does not say that,” Jon said, craning his neck to see. “Holy shit, it does.”  
  
“I think I’ll save this for tomorrow,” Stephen said, tucking in under his pillow, and wincing when he turned just a bit too far around. “So how was your day?”  
  
“Okay,” Jon replied with a shrug. “I’m still on restricted duty, and the TV keeps coming up with all these weird ideas about my sex life, but other than that things have been pretty normal.”  
  
“Are they really- what are they saying?” Stephen asked.  
  
“The story’s changed a bit. At first, the official statement from O’Reilly was that he’d gone slightly overboard in punishing a slave. And then Viacom came out with the full list of injuries, and added something along the lines of ‘we were so shocked that he would react so violently after six years of satisfactory service that we check the DNA from the semen found on 53 to be sure’. 53- that’s what they’re calling you. You’re 53 and I’m 72.”  
  
“Really? They think we’re that old?” Stephen asked. They were last two digits of their identification numbers, Stephen knew, but he needed to joke about something.  
  
Jon rolled his eyes, but when Stephen didn’t follow the interruption up, continued. “So, O’Reilly back-tracked a little and tried to argue that the sex was a trade for the discipline, and was his right as a freeman, but Viacom had already let slip that we’re both dudes, and things snowballed from there.”  
  
“A snowball of slave mutilation and O’Reilly’s gay love triangle,” Stephen said.  
  
“Someone should start a band and call it that,” Jon remarked.  
  
“There’s probably enough in there for three band names,” Stephen said. Then he took a deep breath, and said. “Okay. Give me the rest of it.”  
  
“Apparently you’re caught between me and O’Reilly. O’Reilly can get you nice things, but you’re around _me_ more often. ”  
  
“How very mercenary of me,” Stephen said. “Wait, what kind of ‘nice things’ is O’Reilly supposedly giving me, anyway?”  
  
“Hell if I know,” Jon shrugged. “I kind of thought O’Reilly was the reason we _couldn’t_ have nice things.”  
  
Stephen snorted.  
  
“So, basically, NewsCorp stuck with the ‘sex in exchange for discipline’ line, the implication being that Viacom can’t keep their slaves in line without outside help, and everyone else is stuck with the ‘gay love triangle gone wrong’ angle, the implication of that being that O’Reilly stuck his hand up my ass and then scourged you in a fit of jealous pique.”  
  
“Can fits last three weeks, even?”  
  
“Apparently.”

Stephen leaned back, contemplating. Those lines of thinking could carry on for a while, he thought. If O’Reilly had been fucking them as some form of unofficial payment for disciplining them, then he was at worst a douche whose vice happened to be legal, and at best a perfectly good freeman who probably chosen to indulge in his perfectly normal urges as much because it was less embarrassing for Viacom that way as because it was his right. If he’d been fucking Stephen out of some sort of emotional attachment, and then lashing out when it wasn’t returned to his satisfaction, then there wasn’t really a ‘best’ way to view that- though for O’Reilly the worst of it would probably be the impression that he was gay.  
  
No one was likely to bring up the truth: that neither he nor Jon could have say in the matter, and O’Reilly didn’t consider either of them to be fully human. As far as anyone outside the Estate would know, this would be a matter of the other broadcasters taking advantage of NewsCorp’s sudden weakness. After seven years of watching the news more or less non-stop, he knew that much.   
  
There was one thing he didn’t know, though.  
  
“Did they show our entire ID numbers, or just the last two digits?” he asked.  
  
“They show the entire numbers, when they have text up on the screen,” Jon told him, wincing. There was something of an awkward pause, and then he added. “I am not looking forward to getting _that_ letter from my brother. I have no idea what to tell him.”  
  
“Tell him that the TV lies,” Stephen suggested. “It’s truthy.”  
  
“He’s not going to buy that,” Jon said. “Not entirely, anyway.” He paused for a moment, clearly thinking something through. “What- what would you like me to tell him about you, when he asks?”  
  
“Like- what would he want to know?”  
  
“I think his main concern will be whether or not you’re raping me,” Jon said  
  
Stephen blinked. “Well. Feel free to tell him that I’m not. Actually, you can tell everyone that, you don’t need my permission.”  
  
“That- that’s not what I meant,” Jon said, burying his face in the palm of his hand. Stephen watched as the tips of his ear turned pink. “That’s really not- I’m sorry, that was a horrible way to phrase that- what I meant to say was: can I tell him we’re in a relationship?”  
  
“How the hell do you-” Stephen began.  
  
“Viacom’s been pretty open about the fact that we’re having sex,” Jon interrupted, looking back up at Stephen.  
  
“Well fuck me sideways.”  
  
“They aren’t going into that much detail,” Jon said. “But, given how things went at the last place I was at, Larry’s probably thinking that you’re raping me. So- should I try to lie and say that there is no sex, or should I tell him that we’re in a relationship?”  
  
“You should tell him the truth,” Stephen said. “I mean, unless he’s going to disown you over me being Catholic, or something, you can tell him as much as you feel comfortable with.”  
  
“Really?” Jon asked.  
  
“Well, I assume you don’t want to share all the details of your sex life with your-”  
  
“No,” Jon said, dropping his gaze down to where his hands were twisting anxiously in his lap. “No, I don’t.”  
  
They were silent for a while. Stephen thought, just for a moment, about what _his_ family must be making of all this, before he caught himself and stopped.  
  
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put that book away,” Stephen said, after a while.  
  
Jon laughed. “It would probably be much less awkward than this conversation.”  
  
They spent most of the rest of the night listing the things that were less awkward than their conversation, which included coaching a feline synchronized swimming team and going snipe hunting by yourself. Then the lights switched over, and Jon asked Stephen how his day had gone, so they discussed that, and what was likely to happen before he was let out, until Stephen began to yawn in spite of himself.  
  
Eventually, he gave up, bid Jon goodnight, laid down and fell asleep.

And directly into another one of his nightmares, or so it felt like. The details of this one stuck: he’d been starring in a play at his old high school, and had choked completely, forgetting all his lines. When he was finally able to leave the stage, all he wanted to do was go home, but every time he got close to someone from his family who could drive him there, they disappeared. It continued until he was absolutely frantic, and then O’Reilly appeared directly in front of him, took him by the collar- at that moment transformed from a shirt collar to an actual one- and slammed him into the lockers.  
  
O’Reilly towered over him- he always did, in his dreams. “Are you going to stop fucking around and come home?”  
  
Home didn’t mean with his family, Stephen knew. It meant at O’Reilly’s beck and call. He looked around at the faces watching curiously from behind O’Reilly’s back for help, but none of them were friendly.   
  
“Take him!” someone who sounded a lot like Jay called. Stephen looked, but he could see who was speaking.  
  
“Get him out of here!” That sounded like Lulu. O’Reilly took him by the wrist and nearly dragged him to the exit, ignoring his pleas.  
  
“-please, just let me go, please don’t-” O’Reilly backhanded him across the face, knocking his glasses clean off, and let him fall on the ground.  
  
“Please,” Stephen begged. O’Reilly kicked him.   
  
“Get up,” he ordered, and when Stephen didn’t comply- _couldn’t_ comply, he was shaking too hard- he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the waiting car.  
  
Jon was huddled in the corner of the backseat, glassy-eyed with fear. He watched as O’Reilly pushed Stephen on the floor, cuffs springing into being already around his wrists, and then suddenly Jon was in front of him, his arms wrapped around Stephen’s shoulders, one hand running soothingly through his hair and pressing his head against Jon’s chest. The realization that he was awake startled him.  
  
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Jon said. “It’s just a nightmare, it’s over now, you’re safe.”  
  
Stephen was too far gone to care much about being lied to. He tucked his head into the crook of Jon’s shoulder and tried to remember how to stop shaking.


	33. Servile, Part Four

Neither one of them fell back asleep that night. Jon stayed with him in the bed until the day cycle began, and then reluctantly disentangled himself to go take a shower and get changed before breakfast ended. Stephen tried to read the book, but didn’t get past the first chapter, which informed him that ten was an embarrassingly large number of children to have, even if you lost two before they were grown.   
  
Sometime after breakfast- applesauce and toast again- Stephen gave into temptation and began mentally writing a sketch for how his character would defend O’Reilly. He was just trying to figure out how the work in the line about Welsh sheep farmers- something about it not being gay if the catcher couldn’t say no- when Riggle came in.  
  
“Am I being released today, sir?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” Riggle said, sitting down in Jon’s chair. “Did they not tell you that?”  
  
“They tend to talk over me, not to me, sir,” Stephen told him.  
  
Riggle nodded, and took out his notepad and pen. “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions about what happened between you and O’Reilly?”  
  
Stephen nodded. Jon had warned him about this. _Remember your ‘sirs’ and to keep things as to the point as possible._  
  
“Fire away, sir,” he said.  
  
“How long has O’Reilly been requesting you?”  
  
“Six years this December, sir.”  
  
“That didn’t seem odd to you?”  
  
“Not at first, sir: Jon had to point it out. I’ve only been in service for seven years, though, so I didn’t have a good basis for comparison back then, sir.”  
  
“And he’s always wanted you for sex?”  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
Riggle made a note. “Has it always been violent?”  
  
“It’s gotten worse- but yes. Even when it started things were kind of on the rough side, sir.”  
  
“How rough?”  
  
“When it started, it was mostly just being manhandled, and a few slaps, sir. Then he started kicking, and then started beating me with stuff- his belt, mostly, but also that cane he was using after his accident two years ago, and sometimes he had this knotted rope thing. He also stopped, uh, prepping me, sir.”  
  
Riggle made another note, thankfully not needing to ask what Stephen meant by prepping.   
  
“What did he hit you with this time?”  
  
“His belt- the end with the buckle this time, sir. He, um, he’d filed down the tine in the center so it was sharp, and carved something into my back before he got, started as a demonstration, sir.”  
  
Stephen took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, determined not to start shaking. Riggle made no note, simply watching him instead. “So, a scourge, then.”  
  
“That’s how I’ve been thinking of it, sir,” Stephen replied.  
  
Scourges were very illegal, and also very narrowly defined. It probably wouldn’t become part of the case, but the idea that O’Reilly wasn’t being charged with scourging him only because of technicalities would probably catch on pretty quickly in the news cycle.  
  
“Well, that’s that, then,” Riggle said, scribbling a few last things down in his notebook, before standing. “Good luck.”  
  
“Good luck with what, sir?” Stephen asked, but Riggle, already halfway out the door, didn’t reply.  
  
 _It’s not worth fussing over,_ he decided after a few minutes of wondering what Riggle might think he needed luck for, and if it was something he’d already chewed over with Jon.

He got back to his sketch, and had just decided that, as he was writing this in his head, he could go with the line _That’s not gay, that’s bestiality._ when the medic came in, and had him take off his shirt so he could undo his bandages.   
  
“That’s healing nicely! There’ll be scars coming in soon,” he said.  
  
It took Stephen a moment to realize he was being talked to rather than over. “Oh. That’s good.”  
  
“You don’t technically need these bandages on anymore, but I’m going to wrap them back up and give you some extras once we’re through. That way if you crack a scab there’s something there to soak up the blood other than your shirt. Get Jon to help you.”  
  
Stephen hissed as the medic unexpectedly applied salve to middle of his left shoulder blade, numbing it. “Thanks. Sir.”  
  
“No problem,” the medic replied. “I’m also going to give you some more of this salve- I know you boys have some stored up, but you’re going to run out quick. You’re also getting some antibiotics- take those twice a day for the next ten days. Other than that, you’re free to go once I wrap you back up.”  
  
“Thanks, sir,” Stephen said again, and this time he meant it.

He took the elevator. His legs were less shaky than they’d been yesterday, but he had a longer way to go, and he didn’t want to over-extend himself and end up stranded in the hall. The operator didn’t bother him, though, and soon he was back at his quarters, staring at the bed.  
  
Jon had made it up for him: the covers were pulled smooth beneath the pillows, clean set of clothes, towel, and salve laying on the bed. There was a note too, written on the back of an envelope: _I switched the mattresses, which nearly killed me, so you’re welcome. Feel free to come join us for dinner if you feel up to it. If not, I’ll be back soon._  
  
It was then that Stephen realized that he was staring, and sappily too, and shook himself. He didn’t feel up to dinner that night, so he settled down with a pillow at his back and waited for Jon to return.   
  
He dozed a bit, but didn’t dream. He woke easily when the door opened and Jon entered.   
  
“Hey,” Jon said, smiling. “I thought they might let you out today.”  
  
“You were correct,” Stephen said, scooting over to make room and beckoning him over. Jon crawled into the bed next to him, wrapping one arm carefully around his shoulders.  
  
“You’re okay?” Jon asked. “Nothing you couldn’t tell me in the recovery ward?”  
  
“I’m no worse than when you last saw me,” Stephen said. “And I’m not hiding anything from you.”  
  
Their foreheads bumped. “Good,” said Jon, and from there it was only natural that they lean in a little closer and kiss.  
  
They kissed for while, actually, pulling just far enough to suck in new breaths before pressing their lips back together. Things progressed until Stephen remembered, while he was licking along the roof of Jon’s mouth, that tonight wouldn’t be a very good night to have sex. Stephen was hurt and exhausted and Jon wouldn’t be doing much better as well.   
  
“We’re going to need to stop this soon,” he said. “Just for tonight.”  
  
Jon nodded. “Yeah. I- I still need a shower.”  
  
“So do I. I-uh. I’m also going help with my back. There’s salve and bandages that need applying.”  
  
“I can do that.” Jon pressed one last, fond kiss on the corner of his mouth before withdrawing.  
  
They showered together, Jon helping Stephen to reach the places it was painful for him to reach with his back torn up, and Stephen doing his hair in turn. Then he pat dried himself and laid down on the bed so Jon could rub the salve into his back. It was still tingling from the last dose the medic had applied, but it would last longer this way so hopefully he wouldn’t be in pain when he woke up. Jon wrapped the bandages up under Stephen’s direction, and Stephen slipped into his sleeping clothes.   
  
It took a bit of finagling to figure out was position to sleep in. Stephen was perfectly content to keep to their regular positions, but Jon pointed out that Stephen had a tendency to roll onto his back in the night that way. He ended up pillowing his head on Jon’s chest, letting the slow thump of his heart lull him to sleep.


	34. Servile, Part Five

It was good that he _did_ sleep that night, because the election was right at the beginning of next week, which meant that sleep was a rarity, and what little rest they did have was broken by his stress-induced nightmares. They were kept after every night to ask for clarification or refinement on this point or that, or to write a sketch about this part of the debate. They moved out of the writers’ room and into the backstage prep area, which really did nothing but make themselves easy targets for the actors’ frustration. Leno was particularly unpleasant, going as far as to call for Jon to be given a shock treatment, though Riggle overruled him. He landed a punch right on Jon’s nose, though, and split his own knuckle open. The scab would show up on air for a good week afterwards.  
  
“Sorry,” Helms said, handing Jon an ice pack for his nose. “He’s not normally like this.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s just the pressure getting to him, sir,” Jon said, and then shot Stephen a look that said, clear as anything _Actually, I don’t give a shit what he’s normally like._  
  
Election day itself was hell. They were all up until very late in the night, dinner never arrived, and at the end of the day all they got was four more years of Jeb Bush. The election bled all the way into Wednesday, and Stephen wasn’t at all sure he fell asleep that night at all. He thought he might have simply lain there on the bed, reliving O’Reilly.  
  
 _I know it’s against regulations. I also know there’s not a thing you can do about it. What do you think is going to happen, you’ll tell the guards I plan on making you bleed and they’ll take you at your word? No, you’re going to lie there and take it, and be quiet about it. If you cause a fuss I’m just going to have to do this again. Possibly with your boyfriend._  
  
It was a relief when the day cycle began, though not as great a relief as when he realized that afternoon that there was no good reason why he shouldn’t put his head on Jon’s shoulder and fall asleep. Even that paled with the experience of being allowed to go back to their quarters and flop down on the bed.  
  
“Hey,” Jon poked awake what felt like three seconds later. “You need a shower.”  
  
“Take one in the morning,” Stephen grumbled half into the pillow. “Come down here.”  
  
Jon lay down on the bed and urged Stephen on top of him. Stephen hummed in contentment and placed and open mouthed kiss on the side of Jon’s throat.  
  
“Thank you,” he said.  
  
“Get some sleep,” Jon replied.  
  
His hand began carding through Stephen’s hair, and that was the last he knew until the day cycle began again.  
  
That day was a good one, mostly. He was rested and comfortable enough to focus on his work, which was still mostly about the election’s aftermath, rather than anything to do with O’Reilly. He and Olivia got to do another riff off of Tolkien when a commentator began talking about how the election results were just like when the riders of Rohan came to break the siege of Helms Deep. The peanut butter in their sandwiches was crunchy during lunch, and the broccoli served with dinner was noticeably less mushy than it usually was.  
  
It was even less harrowing than usual when the guards came in with last-minute requests. They were generally left alone this close to election season. His last session with O’Reilly had fallen just outside the pre-election safe zone, and Viacom generally let them have until the weekend to recuperate in peace. He purposefully avoided looking at the guards, and focused on finishing his chicken fingers. Across the table from him, Jon started and dropped his fork on to the floor with a loud clatter.

“What?” Stephen asked. He turned so he was looking where Jon was staring: there was a short, well dressed man flanked by Riggle and three other guards, scanning the crowd. “Who’s that?”  
  
“That’s my brother,” Jon said, sounded shocked.  
  
“What,” Stephen said, as did Aasif.  
  
Stephen turned to look at the other man, whose eyes passed over their table twice without registering Jon’s presence. Jon bent down and retrieved his fork.  
  
“Dude,” Wyatt said. “Are you from a rich family or something?”  
  
Jon snorted. “No.” He paused. “Larry works with rich people, though, so he can fake it pretty well. I, uh. I should go talk to him.”  
  
He left. Everyone at the table immediately turned to Stephen.  
  
“He’s in service for weed and a bogus resisting arrest charge, right?” Tim asked.   
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Then if his brother can come down here, couldn’t he also get Jon out?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
He watched as Jon tried to get Larry’s attention without speaking, gave up, and introduced himself. One of the guards started forwards, but stopped when Larry threw up his hands and said something, wearing the same panicked expression Jon wore when he was given a collar.  
  
“It’s not my story to tell,” Stephen said, before anyone could ask. “Suffice it to say, there’s nothing Jon can do but wait for his term to expire.”  
  
Larry waved dismissively at the guards, put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, and walked out of the mess hall with him. Riggle and the others followed. Stephen turned determinedly back to his dinner, and, eventually, everyone else went back to theirs as well.


	35. Servile, Part Six

Stephen had planned on waiting up for Jon, but he was back before Stephen finished taking his shower. He closed the door quickly behind him when he realized what Stephen was doing, and quickly stripped off and joined him under the spray.   
  
“Well?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Well, that’s a conversation I hope I don’t have to repeat with my mother,” Jon replied, nudging Stephen a bit to his left so they could share the spray. “It- it went okay, I guess. I just was hoping not to have it face-to-face.”  
  
“How’d he take it?”  
  
“Well, at first he didn’t want to take much of anything. He wanted to know why I hadn’t told him things were so bad, so I told him that they weren’t really, it was mostly just O’Reilly being a dick, and he wasn’t having any of that, so I let him rant for a while before pointing out that, legally speaking, anyone who owned me could do almost anything they wanted to me, things could be a lot worse but there weren’t a lot of places where they could be better. He got it, eventually. I don’t think he’ll try to have me sold off somewhere new again.”  
  
Stephen sucked in a surprise breath, and then spluttered as he accidentally inhaled soap as well. “That was a possibility?” he asked.  
  
“He did it before. To get me out of the other place,” Jon said. “If he wanted to, he could probably pull some strings and do it again.”  
  
Stephen tilted his head back to rise out his mouth, contemplating. If Jon left… no, he couldn’t even imagine it. He didn’t _want_ to imagine it, not in the least because he knew that Jon’s term expired six months before his did, and he’d have to live it sooner rather than later.  
  
Then evitable ‘and then what?’ hung in his mind, but Jon was speaking, so he pushed it aside to think about as later as possible.  
  
“If nothing else, I think he’ll be too busy absorbing the fact that I’m not straight to make any arrangements for me,” Jon was saying.

Stephen blinked. “You weren’t out to your family before?”  
  
“I wasn’t out to _me_ before,” Jon replied.  
  
“Huh,” Stephen said, pouring some soap into his hand. He deposited it into his hair and began working it into a lather. “I wasn’t out either. I knew I was attracted to both men and women, but I figured I’d just stick with women and spare everyone the trouble.”  
  
“I’ll be honest, I kind of assumed that when guys joked about giving Bruce Springsteen a blowjob that they were joking about having the guts, not the desire,” Jon said. He’d already soaped up his own hair, Stephen noticed with a tiny pang of disappointment. He _liked_ washing Jon’s hair.  
  
“You might have been right about that,” Stephen said, and Jon laughed.  
  
They were silent for a while. It started easy, but grew less so as Stephen tried to work up the courage to ask Jon if he’d managed to convince Larry that Stephen wasn’t a rapist.  
  
“It came up while I was telling him that you weren’t forcing me to do anything I didn’t want to do. That you _wouldn’t_ force me,” Jon said, apparently guessing what was going on in Stephen’s head. “Actually, I told him that if we were both free we’d probably be one of those nauseating couples that made out in the back of movie theaters.”  
  
Stephen didn’t reply. There were no words for the way his heart leaped out of his chest at the thought of going on _dates_ with Jon, so he stayed silent and hoped Jon would use his mind reading powers to understand.

He didn’t. Stephen could tell that he didn’t. It was obvious from the way Jon was holding himself that he was hurt and trying to hide it: but Stephen didn’t know why, and he still didn’t have any words. Things progressed, from rubbing salve onto Stephen’s still-healing back in silence, to getting dressed in silence, to laying together on the bed in silence. Stephen’s head was still pillowed on Jon’s chest, but Jon’s arms remained at his sides rather than folding around Stephen, and he was as stiff as a board.  
  
 _Well, you fucked something up here, Colbert._ he acknowledged. _Man up and figure out what it is._  
  
“Jon?” he asked.  
  
“Look, Stephen,” Jon began. There was a snap in his voice, and he let out a small, displeased huff before continuing, more gently. “Look, I know I’m- I’m really needy. And that I’m getting a lot more out of this rela- out of this than I can really put back in. So if I’m- if I cross a line or presume something that makes you uncomfortable, please just tell me? I’ll back off, I just- I need to know.”  
  
Jon had moved past stiff and was now tense, nearly vibrating. Stephen pushed himself up so he could look Jon in the face. It wasn’t a very practical gesture: the night cycle had begun, and they’d fastened the curtains, and he could just barely tell where Jon’s face was by the tiny bit of light that reflected off his eyes.  
  
“You haven’t crossed any lines or presumed anything,” Stephen told him. “And you’re not the only one who sometimes gets the feeling that they aren’t putting as much into this relationship as they’re getting out of it, believe me.”  
  
“Stephen-” Jon said, and Stephen could feel the tension draining out of him, but he needed to say this while he still knew how.   
  
“I wish we could have those dates at movie theaters, too.”  
  
There. He’d said it, and if the way Jon pulled his head down to kiss him frantically on the mouth was any indication, he’d been understood as well.


	36. Servile, Part Seven

He grabbed Jon by the shoulder and rolled them onto their sides, hitching a leg over Jon’s to keep him pressed flushed against Stephen’s body. It was awkward, at first, with Stephen hyperaware that Jon laying on his back was out of the question and _his_ back couldn’t take the strain right now. Then Jon began licking the inside of his mouth, and Stephen got his arm out from under himself and up Jon’s shirt, and the world narrowed until there was nothing else in it. It was just he and Jon kissing, the feel of Jon’s body hair beneath his fingers, his hand in Stephen’s hair, and his erection hardening against Jon’s thigh.   
  
It was Jon who broke the kiss, pulling back as he gasped for breath.  
  
“Okay?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Yeah, just-” Jon sat up, pulling Stephen up by his shoulders after him. Stephen had some idea where he was going with this, and pulled him onto his lap, his hands sliding down to cup Jon’s ass. He remembered a split second later that Jon might still be tender down there, but before he could properly second-guess himself Jon let out an obscene moan and ground himself against Stephen.   
  
“Good?” Stephen checked, squeezing a little.  
  
“Yes,” Jon hissed. Their noses bumped as Jon searched out Stephen’s mouth with his own. He ground impossibly closer, one hand on Stephen’s shoulder, the other on his waist. He kneaded Jon’s ass, listening to all the little noises it caused Jon to make, and they kissed until there was a very real possibility that Stephen would come in his pants.  
  
“We should- clothes,” he muttered as Jon mouthed along him collarbone. “Get ‘em off.”  
  
Jon hummed, and hooked his thumbs in beneath his waistband, and began back off the bed, dragging Stephen’s pants with him and unbending his legs in the process. Stephen realized what he was doing, cursed, and fumbled for the curtain fastenings so he could pull them open.   
  
Jon was generally reserved. Actually, no, that was a lie: Jon generally went around wearing a full suit of armor hammered out of a thousand subservient-seeming tics that he could use to at least try to influence what was done to him. Stephen knew that better than anyone: Jon had taught him most of them. He would drop his guard when it was just he and Stephen, though, and when they did this, he was downright hedonistic. And Stephen wanted to see it.   
  
He got the curtains open just as Jon knelt on the floor. Jon pulls his pants down past his knees, and then, as Stephen moved closer to him, buried his face in Stephen’s thigh. Stephen nearly whimpered, and then did whimper as Jon turned his face with a short, quiet groan and began mouthing Stephen’s balls.  
  
Jon ran his hands along Stephen’s hips, and let out a _mmph_ against his balls.  
  
“Jon,” Stephen groaned. Jon kissed his way up the side of his cock, and then wrapped his lips around it and swallowed it down. Stephen groaned, and his hand tangled in Jon’s hair. Jon’s eyes fluttered closed, his expression almost blissful as he pulled back until only the head of Stephen’s dick was still in his mouth.   
  
Stephen watched as Jon built up a rhythm, the steady wet sound of his lips moving over his shaft, punctuated with Stephen’s groans whenever Jon would do _something_ with his tongue.  
  
“Jon,” Stephen said, hoping that it sounded like the warning he intended it to be.” _Jon_.”  
  
Jon’s nostrils flared as he looked up at Stephen, drawing in breath. Then he swallowed Stephen’s cock down again, this time forcing his tongue out past his lips to lick at his balls. Stephen came, Jon swallowing around him as his hand left Jon’s head to clutch at the edge to bed so he didn’t fall off.

“Oh God, come up here,” he said, as soon as he was able. Jon was panting into his knee, but when Stephen spoke, he wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and crawled gingerly back onto bed, sitting back against the pillows. Stephen kissed him, though not for very long.  
  
“Stephen,” Jon pleaded, pushing a hand between them to tug his pants down. Stephen wrapped his hand around Jon’s dick, braced his other hand on the headboard behind him, and kissed along his throat as he threw his head back and groaned. Stephen worked his way down to Jon’s collarbone, then shifted back so he could get at Jon’s dick.  
  
He wasn’t as good at this as Jon was. He was, in fact, deathly afraid that he would take too much in too quickly, and then freak out with Jon’s dick in between his teeth, particularly now, when turning his neck too much still reminded him that O'Reilly had choked him half to death not too long ago. There was no way a real blowjob could end in anything other than tears.   
  
There were other things he could do that didn’t run the risk of him choking, though. He flattened his tongue against Jon’s balls, and was rewarded immediately by the feel of Jon’s scrotum tightening against his tongue and Jon letting out what could only be described as a shout. Stephen wrapped his fingers around his cock and gave his balls a lick, watching as Jon bit down on his lower lip and arched his back, thrusting into his grip. Stephen kept licking as Jon thrust up through his fist, until Stephen figured he was getting close, and shifted his hand up with tease at the head with his thumb, and wrapped his lips around Jon’s ball as much as they could. Jon let out another shout from behind his teeth and came, hips jerking forwards as he pressed himself blindly against Stephen’s hand.   
  
Stephen got up while Jon was still panting on the pillows, and got a washcloth for Jon. Jon took it, while Stephen lay down on his side, watching as he cleaned himself off, threw the cloth away, and pulled his pants back up. Stephen kissed him then. They kept at it for a while. It felt right.  
  
“I, uh,” Jon said, once Stephen had pulled away to hide his yawn in the pillow. “I have a confession to make.”  
  
“And how long has it been since your last confession, my son?” Stephen asked in his best priestly voice.  
  
Jon rolled his eyes, and hooked his ankle over Stephen’s leg in what was probably supposed to be interpreted as a kick. “Three weeks past never, I believe. I- Anyway, I. I’m actually not a ‘making out in the back of movie theaters’ type of guy.”  
  
It took Stephen a moment to remember the context for that statement, but when he did he laughed.  
  
“I mean, I would do if you wanted to do it, but left to my own devices I more of a ‘Star Wars and blowjob marathon’ type of guy,” Jon said, only slightly defensively.  
  
“And I would be completely okay with that,” Stephen said. “I- it would be nice to have those options, though.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said, pulling Stephen in closed until he was on top of him. “Yeah.”


	37. Servile, Part Eight

Jon got his stitches out the following morning, and they celebrated by having sex that was preceded by a good half an hour of making out while Stephen groped Jon’s ass. They had the weekend, which passed without incident, and most of Monday, and then Karlin handed over a shock collar and told Jon to skip dinner and present himself at the loading dock.  
  
Stephen managed to hold himself together during dinner, and do all the things he should have done: eat, send Wyatt and Olivia sympathetic looks when they too were requested, ask Tim to help with the salve on his back, and steal a roll for Jon to eat later, assuming he’d return in any fit state to eat.   
  
He’d been rented out of house himself- twice as a matter of fact. Once he was rented out to a family that had leased a house on the fringes of the Estate that had mostly wanted him to mind the barbeque, and another time he was rented with Wyatt and John Oliver out to a bachelorette party. They were both _bad_ experiences. The barbeque had been bad because of the children, who had been told what he was and had then gathered around him shouting orders he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to obey or not. One little hellion had pestered his father to use the shock collar for nearly three hours before he gave in, and the resulting charge had knocked Stephen off his feet. He’d nearly wet himself; the boy had run off crying to his mother. The bachelorette party had been bad, because Stephen was no longer very good at performing for an audience, if he'd ever been good enough to perform having sex in front of an audeince, which he probably wasn't. He really hadn’t needed to know what Wyatt’s cock tasted like, or how John looked when he was getting fucked. And also? That had been the most awkward ride back _ever_.  
  
There was no telling what would happen to Jon, and nothing he could really do about it, save leaving out the roll, towel, salve, and a clean pair of sleeping clothes. He knew he probably couldn’t manage it- the fact that being on the bed made him sleepy, and he needed to be on the bed to avoid hypothermia took care of that- but he changed into sleeping clothes and sat back against the headboard to try anyway.  
  
He fell asleep and had a nightmare, of course. An ugly nightmare, where O’Reilly tied him to his childhood bed and carved into his back with his brother’s penknife, and when Jay burst in on them, he yelled at Stephen for stealing it.   
  
Stephen woke up with his back burning. It faded quickly, and after a few moments, he was convinced that it had pretty much entirely been in his head. He also noticed that the shower was running, after a few moments more, he felt well enough to get up and investigate.   
  
Jon had returned. There were several scratch marks in his back, and several newly formed bruises on his hips. He was spreading his ass open under the spray- Stephen recognized it as the ‘get the come out’ position, winced, and went back to the bed before Jon could open his eyes and see him. He sat back down, and then called out.  
  
“Jon?”  
  
“Yeah- I’ll, I’ll be finished here soon,” Jon called back.  
  
“Take as much time as you need,” Stephen replied.   
  
It was another ten minutes before Jon returned, teeth chattering from cold. Stephen handed him a towel, just barely saved the roll from hitting the floor, and then tossed him his clothes.  
  
“Thanks,” Jon said. His teeth were still chattering, so it came out like “Th-th-th-th-thanks.”  
  
“Are you hungry?” Stephen asked. Jon shook his head, so he placed the roll up on the top bunk, kicked down the blankets, and motioned for Jon to lie down on top of him.  
  
“Your back’s still fucked up,” Jon pointed out. "I don't want to fuck it up more."  
  
“It’s gotten better. You know it’s gotten better,” Stephen retorted. “Come on, just until you warm up.”  
  
Jon laid down on top of him. He was shivering, and felt like ice. Stephen spread his legs, enclosing Jon’s between them, and pulled the blankets over him. On a whim, he pulled the top one over both their heads, giving them their own little cocoon.   
  
Stephen searched out his freezing hands and began to rub them. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Jon said dejectedly into Stephen’s collarbone. “They didn’t do a lot of damage, it just hurt. It was some kind of- don’t know. A party with a lot of NewsCorp people. Hannity. Coulter. Carlson. Breitbart. Doocy. Not O’Reilly. They kept shocking me whenever I wasn’t on anyone’s dick. We were in a limo pretty much the whole time. It was weird. Why would you want to have an orgy in a limo? It’s practically in public and almost impossible to maneuver. At one point Carlson had his head out the moon roof while I was blowing him and getting fucked by Coulter and Hannity. I mean, did they just forget that people might not want to see them having sex? I didn’t think I was giving head that good.”  
  
Jon looked at him, apparently expecting an answer. Stephen goggled back.   
  
“They gave me pills. Like, five. This is why I don’t take them. They make everything too floaty and then the filter between my brain and my mouth unexists.” He dropped his head back down on Stephen’s shoulder, and snuggled a bit. “You’re warm. I’m glad you put up with me.”  
  
Stephen squeezed his hands. “Feeling’s mutual.”  
  
They stayed silent for a few moments- the air under the blankets became stale, and Jon warmed up. Stephen pushed the blankets down a bit so they could breath.   
  
“I think it was revenge,” Jon said abruptly. “For O’Reilly. I mean, Viacom wants to cover their ass, as does NewsCorp, but O’Reilly must have had friends at a personal level. They might want to try something. Giving them me now, when they know they have to behave, might appease them a bit. Stop them from doing anything drastic like crippling one of us or something. I mean, they planned for _me_ , specifically, it wasn’t about them all fucking something together. O’Reilly kept asking me about the supe, when he had me, so I guess he must have passed that along and someone must have been able to put things together because they knew _everything_ \- they kept talking about all the things he’d made me do, they wouldn’t _shut up_ about-”  
  
Jon jumped abruptly up and off Stephen, curling on his side facing the wall. Stephen blinked, and sat up. What was going on? What was he missing?  
  
“Jon?” There was no reply. Stephen put a hand on Jon’s waist. “Jon if you need me to go I’ll go, and if you need me to stay, I’ll stay. You just need to let me know-”  
  
Jon grabbed his hand and pulled Stephen down, clutching the hand to his chest. Stephen arranged himself so he was curled around him with his head hooked over Jon’s shoulder, and saw that Jon was getting hard.  
  
 _The pills,_ he thought, with perfect empathy. They were a two-edged sword that way for him: the relief of being able to escape the brunt of the pain and humiliation being paid for with unwanted arousal after the fact. Having an erection was just one more thing bored guards and night-shift personnel could use to justify going after you, not to mention having to jack off after you were requested was humiliating. He knew it wasn’t his fault- that it wasn’t his fault even without the drugs- but knowing wasn't always enough.   
  
And Jon hadn’t even managed to reap any of the benefits.   
  
“Oh Jon,” he said. “Do you want me to help, or just stay here?”  
  
“Stay,” Jon rasped, squeezing his hand. Stephen snuggled closer, as Jon uncurled just enough to toss one leg over Stephen, and work his free hand under his pants. He flushed hot, and Stephen could tell that he hated every second.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said automatically, and then winced. He didn’t like it when Jon said that to him, though he was beginning to realize that there weren’t a great deal of comforting things he could say that weren’t lies. “You’re safe right now, it’s just you and me, you can relax-”  
  
“Can you not watch, please?” Jon asked.   
  
Stephen shifted down and rested his forehead against the back of Jon’s neck. “Whatever you need, Jon.”  
  
“Thank you,” Jon said. “Thank you.”  
  
Stephen pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, and Jon shuddered. He squeezed Jon’s hand. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Jon came with a muffled grunt a few minutes later, and began to tense a minute after that. Stephen was at a loss. Things were clearly more _wrong_ than usual, but he didn’t know what, exactly, was making Jon break down, or how to help shore him up. Was it the way the drugs interacted with his system? The fact that this session was especially bad? That it had been personal? That it had involved dredging up memories of the supe? Was it just being turned on?  
  
He didn’t know how often Jon ever had to jerk off afterwards, he realized. He knew Jon showered after, because his hair was generally still damp when he got back to their quarters, but… he didn’t take the pills, generally speaking. It was possible this didn’t happen to him very often.  
  
“Jon?” he asked.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Jon mumbled. “I’m sorry.”  
  
At least he knew how to respond to that. “It’s not your fault. It’s just the pills, it’s not you.”  
  
Jon flinched as though Stephen had hit him, but made no other move to pull away.   
  
“It’s not your fault,” Stephen insisted, shifting so he could wrap Jon in a proper hug. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
Jon twisted around and buried his head in Stephen’s shirt. Stephen buried his face in Jon’s hair and rubbed his back.   
  
It was about five minutes later that the wake-up whistle sounded.


	38. Servile, Part Nine

Jon took another shower before they left for the morning. He looked terrible: his skin had a decidedly grayish tinge to it, and there were dark circles under his eyes, which seemed fever bright. It the harsh white lighting of the day cycle, Stephen could see that there was a smattering of bruises along his collarbone, and one pink circle on his neck where the shocks would have been administered. The overall effect looked unhealthy enough to cause the guards to give them a wide berth.  
  
“Wow,” Wyatt said as they sat down. “And here I was kind of hoping one of us had managed to have a not-entirely-terrible night.”  
  
“No such luck,” Jon replied. “I had an orgy with a bunch of rich assholes in a limo. Who’d you get?”  
  
“An elderly racist couple with a dildo collection,” he replied.  
  
“I had a quarterback who decided to celebrate winning the championship by yelling ‘goal!’ as he came,” Olivia added. “Repeatedly. Over _everything_. He thought it was hysterical.”  
  
“What did we do to piss off Viacom?” Jon asked, stabbing viciously at his waffle with his fork. One of the tines broke off, and he scowled darkly down at his plate.   
  
_Well, at least he’s a lot more coherent now,_ Stephen thought.   
  
“Sometimes I think the fact that we exist pisses off Viacom,” Al replied.   
  
There was nowhere good the conversation could turn from there, so it stopped for a while. Breakfast finished shortly thereafter, and they trudged back to the writer’s room. Post-election commentary was winding down, though Stephen was kind of unnerved to see how much of it centered on Bush having gotten fewer votes than expected and whether or not that was because of the revival of the slave controversy. There was, supposedly, more information that NewsCorp was planning to release that night, but that would happen after they were finished for the day. That would just have to be one of the things they were dealing with tomorrow.  
  
Jon worked steadily through their first couple of hours on the job, then stiffly through the next hour and a half and a book held strategically in his lap: the pills were still having an effect on his system, it seemed. He darted for the bathroom as soon as Karlin came to let them out for lunch: Stephen considered following him and offering a hand, but decided against it. One of the guards at the end of the hall, a new guy, was tracking Stephen’s movement _very_ closely, and he didn’t want to risk it. The man might be on duty, but Stephen knew from experience that that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take a break and follow him. A lot could happen in twenty minutes, and he didn’t particularly want any of it to happen, let alone in front of Jon, let alone _to_ Jon.   
  
It would happen eventually, in all likelihood. But it couldn’t happen through legal channels until Stephen’s back was healed, and if he could just manage to not be caught alone it wouldn’t happen extra-legally either. And if he was caught alone… well, then he could go to Riggle with the evidence, and with luck that would be the end of it.

Stephen picked over his sandwich until Jon returned, looking slightly embarrassed. Lunch that day was broken only by Wyatt getting a letter from his parents; Stephen managed to remember that touching each other while the guards were watching wasn’t very smart, so no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t hug Jon; then it was back to work. Olivia and Wyatt had gotten the couch in the morning: as Wyatt had very little to do that afternoon, he took one of the cushier seats, while Olivia shared the couch with Jon. Karlin had brought his to book for tomorrow’s guest, and Stephen watched him power through it, in between sketching out a few ideas for tomorrow. He doubted they would let anything he wrote about whatever NewsCorp brought to air that night be broadcast, even if he did manage to find something in it to be funny about.

He probably would find something funny about it eventually, but he kind of doubted that would happen before he’d have to have a skit in.  
  
Dinner was okay. No one got requested, which was a relief. The food itself consisted of a drippy tuna casserole, which was a disappointment. There was a movie playing, but it was some kind of animated movie about cows that only Aasif and Al wanted to riff on. They managed to convince Olivia and Wyatt to tough it out with them, and were working on Sarah when Jon excused himself. They bid him goodnight without trying to persuade him: Jon had started avoiding animated movies ever since his friends had started showing up in the credits.   
  
When Stephen finished his juice and followed him out, they didn’t try very hard to change his mind.   
  
Jon had been loitering around just outside the door. The new guard was too, and Stephen could feel his eyes on him as they walked towards their quarters in step with the other slaves.  
  
“You noticed that guy looking at you, right?” Jon asked  
  
“Yeah,” Stephen replied. “Thanks for walking with me.” He bumped his arm against Jon’s  
  
“No problem,” Jon replied, looking down at his shoes.

When they got back to their quarters and the door had locked behind them, Jon turned to him and sheepishly asked if he could take the shower first.   
  
“Yeah sure,” Stephen replied. Jon turned and was in the bathcorner before Stephen added. “But if you change your mind and want to- to have sex instead of- well, I’m game.”  
  
Before he could be mortified by his general lack of suave, Jon grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the bathcorner.

Stephen took Jon’s head between his hands and kissed him. Jon made a pleased humming noise against his lips and their noses bumped as they both tried to tilt their heads to the left. Stephen smiled, and pressed in closer: he imagined briefly, doing this with Jon pressing him against the wall while Stephen’s hands gripped his bottom, urging him even closer. Then he put it aside for later, when they were less injured.   
  
Instead, he ran a hand down Jon’s back and slipped it under his shirt, running his palm over the hair and scar tissue beneath it. Jon shivered, and sucked Stephen’s bottom lip in between his own. Stephen backed against the bedframe, widening his stance and tightening his grip in Jon’s hair as he did so. Jon moaned and slotted himself between Stephen’s legs, pressed flush against him, the heat of his erection seeping through their pants and into Stephen’s skin. Jon mouthed along his throat until Stephen dipped his head and licked his way past Jon’s lips. Jon sucked on it, his own tongue pressing it against the roof of his mouth, and slipped one hand beneath his waistband to rub warm circles on Stephen’s hip. They stayed like that for a moment, warm and comfortable and snug. Then Jon started rocking his hips, grinding his erection into Stephen’s, and everything became hot, too intense and not nearly enough all at the same time.   
  
Stephen broke the kiss with a moan, throwing his head back as Jon grunted. Jon resumed mouthing at every bit of Stephen’s throat he could reach, Jon’s hand creeping around his thigh until it was pressed against his balls.  
  
“Oh God, Jon,” he said. Jon smiled against his collarbone: he could feel the smugness. “ _Jon_.”  
  
“Don’t worry, babe,” Jon said, giving his balls a slight squeeze. Stephen moaned again, and Jon shivered. “I’m just getting started.”  
  
He lowered himself to his knees, snagging Stephen’s waistband as he did so. Then he pressed his face against his erection and breathed in. Stephen whimpered, the hand in Jon’s hair clenching into a fist.  
  
“Please,” he said, hips twitching involuntarily forward. The tip of Jon’s tongue darted out to take a quick swipe across his balls. “Please, Jon, please suck me, Jon, please-”  
  
Jon hummed, and licked a stripe up his cock from root to tip. He teased at Stephen’s slit and then took just the very tip of his dick into his mouth- more like a kiss than anything else.  
  
“Pleasejonpleasejonpleasejonpleasejonjonjonjon,” Stephen chanted.

Jon hummed again, and took Stephen deeper into his mouth as Stephen groaned. He sucked, his tongue flicked against the sensitive spot behind the flare of his head, and then he began bobbing his head lower down Stephen’s dick.

He looked up at Stephen, his lips still wrapped halfway down his shaft, and Stephen whimpered again.

_Fucking gorgeous,_ he might have said, had he still had the words. As it was, he groaned out Jon’s name again, and then watched as Jon began to take his cock down his throat. He was enthralled as Jon held himself still for a moment, his nose buried in Stephen’s pubic hair, before slowly withdrawing, leaving his dick shiny with saliva. Jon took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, and then worked his way back down again.

 

Not for the first time, he wished he would be able to return the favor; that he didn't still feel like panicing at the thought of not being able to breathe for any amount of time. He wished (as Jon pulled back once more) that he could enjoy the feel of Jon’s pulse beating against his tongue without the worry (Jon swallowed again) that he would-

Jon choked.

Before Stephen could fully register that fact, he’d pulled back on Jon’s hair until he was no longer sucking on his dick. Jon looked up at him, shocked, but if he said anything Stephen couldn’t make it out over the frantic buzzing in his ears. He let go of Jon’s hair and pressed his hands to his chest. His heart was pounding, too fast, it felt like there wasn’t enough room in his chest for his lungs to expand-

There were hands gripping his shoulder, and he nearly panicked about panicking in the middle of a session when he remembered that he wasn’t have one, it was Jon. Those were Jon’s hands guiding him down to the edge of the bed, Jon’s arms wrapping around him from behind, Jon’s erection pressed into his ass-

The thought lost all coherency as soon as he finished having it. He opened his mouth to scream, let out a wheezing rasp instead, and waited for it to begin.

When nothing new happened, the static in his head receded enough for him to make out Jon’s voice: “-can do it, just breathe with me, in, and out, in, and out, please Stephen, in, and out…”

He let it drag him out of his head, and eventually even managed to obey. They sat there for a few minutes, Jon’s arms still wrapped around his chest as they breathed in tandem, and then he pressed a kiss into the nape of Stephen’s neck. “Are you going to be okay on your own for a few minutes?”

Stephen nodded.

“Okay,” Jon said, shifting. “I’ll right back, okay?”

Stephen nodded again, but Jon had already gone.


	39. Servile, Part Ten

Jon jerked off quickly: Stephen heard him grunt as he came, and then the water turned off. He walked past Stephen just as fast, and came back carrying a bundle of sleeping clothes for Stephen, having already changed into his own.   
  
“You doing better, now?” Jon asked.  
  
“Yeah, a bit,” Stephen said, holding out his hands for his clothing. He changed as Jon stared, riveted, at a crease in the comforter. Then he sat back down on the bed, swinging his legs up and patting the space next to him. Jon followed, and tentatively put his arm around Stephen’s shoulders.   
  
They sat there for a moment, and then Jon spoke. “Is it okay if I ask you what set you off?”  
  
“The sound,” Stephen said quickly. “I just- anything that involves choking, I can’t handle. At all, apparently.”  
  
Jon squeezed his shoulder. “Sorry. That was me- I mistimed the whole breathing thing. It won’t happen again.”  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t have reacted that way if- if things had gone better.” It seemed pretty stupid to say, now that it was out of his mouth. _If things had gone better_ \- if neither of them had ever in been in service, maybe.  
  
“I’m still-”  
  
Stephen cut him off before he could say any more. “Seriously, don’t make me ban you from apologizing. It’ll get really awkward when you’re being snappy and actually do something wrong.”  
  
Jon snorted, and pressed himself closer. Stephen threaded their fingers together and let the feel of his breathing anchor him to the present, where he was relatively safe and very comfortable.  
  
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Stephen asked. “When I panicked?”  
  
“No. You might have given me a few more grey hairs, but you didn’t hurt me,” Jon assured him.  
  
Stephen leaned his head against Jon’s. “Good.”  
  
They stayed like that for a few minutes more, until Stephen started to yawn.   
  
“Can we turn in early?” Stephen asked.   
  
“Sure,” Jon said and shifted away to close the curtains.   
  
Stephen snuck under the blankets, and held them up for Jon to slip in beside him. As Jon did just that, Stephen snuck an arm under his head, and threw the other one over his middle. Jon snuggled back against him and folded his arms over Stephen’s, so he hitched a leg over Jon’s.  
  
“Good?” he asked.  
  
“Yep,” Jon replied.   
  
It was as though he’d given Stephen permission to feel exhausted. “Good,” he mumbled, then let sleep overtake him.  
  
The next thing he knew, Jon was grinding against his thigh. Stephen blinked, and after a few bewildering seconds, realized that Jon was still asleep, and clearly having a very good dream.   
  
“Jon,” he hissed in Jon’s ear. “Jon!”  
  
Jon jerked awake, panting. For a moment he stayed fairly still, merely quivering, and then he asked, tentatively “Stephen?”  
  
“Yes,” Stephen replied huskily, breathing in Jon’s ear. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d freaked out, but it had definitely been long enough that he was willing to try again.   
  
“Can- could you let me up? I’ve got- I need to take care of this.”  
  
“Or I could take care of it for you,” Stephen offered, nearly purring.  
  
Jon went stiff as a board. Stephen frowned. That was not supposed to happen. What was he missing here?

“You can say no,” he reminded him, after a long, tense silence.  
  
“No,” Jon said, almost immediately. “Not-I just- I _can’t_ -”  
  
Stephen withdrew to the far side of the bed until his back hit the wall, and Jon ducked out under the curtains without finishing that sentence.  
  
He didn’t shower, though after a few minutes Stephen heard water running in the sink. He returned shortly thereafter and lay down on the bed. It was too dark to make out anything more than the vague shape of his body against the curtain, but Stephen could very nearly feel his trepidation.   
  
“Are you okay?” Stephen asked, mostly to give Jon the option of pretending he was.  
  
Jon curled in on himself a little.   
  
“Jon?” Stephen asked. There was still no reply, but he could see Jon’s outline start to shake, feel the tremors through the box-springs. He reached out. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Jon broke down sobbing. Stephen shifted forwards and wrapped himself around Jon.  
  
“Sorry,” Jon gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-”  
  
“Shh,” Stephen soothed, running a hair through Jon’s curls. “It’s ok- you’re safe, right now. Whatever it is, it’s not happening now.”  
  
Jon muffled a low, miserable whimper into Stephen’s shoulder.   
  
“You can let it out, if you need to,” Stephen said. “It’s just the two of us here. I’ve got you.”  
  
Jon didn’t say anything, but he did curl into Stephen’s embrace, and eventually cried himself dry. He didn’t fall back asleep, and neither did Stephen. They just lay there, clinging to each other like two frightened children, until the wake-up whistle sounded.


	40. Servile, Part Eleven

“So, uh,” Jon said, after Stephen finished his shower. “I think- can we talk? Later? About what happened last night?”  
  
“Of course,” Stephen said.   
  
Jon smiled. It looked painful.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Stephen’s mouth.  
  
Jon was completely disconnected that morning, hardly noticing that New Guy was supervising shaving and eating mechanically at breakfast. Stephen watched with concern as he sat down in the writer’s room without speaking, picked up his book, and began plowing determinedly through the last quarter, before forcing his attention to own work.   
  
The TV was tuned to CNN’s morning programming: Geraldo Rivera was on the TV, speaking with Megan Kelly. _There are a lot of men who have those urges, as well as a few women,_ he was saying. _It’s just the way we’re wired. Isn’t it better to work them out on a slave, rather than your wife?_  
  
 _So nothing you heard last night changes your opinion?_ Kelly asked. Stephen started, having forgotten that NewsCorp had been planning on making an announcement.   
  
_Why should it? If anything, it confirms my belief that this is nothing more than a partisan attack, a politically motivated partisan attack,_ Rivera said. _Coming so close to the election, involving, as we now know, the staff of such a politicized show, and with the whole thing being blown so far out of proportion, what else could it be?_  
  
Stephen snuck a side-long look at Jon, who was buried in his book, oblivious. Olivia was looking at him, but he ignored her and turned his attention back to the TV.  
  
 _And more, after these messages,_ Kelly said, and cut to commercial.  
  
Stephen frowned down at his notepad. His scribblings from last night seemed less palatable than they had before. He crossed out ideas until he had a vague line of thought along the line of overly-earnest concern about what four more years in office would do for Bush’s hairline, and some choice words for Dean about shouting. But even those might be rendered too close for comfort, depending on where this was going.  
  
Stephen chewed on the end of his pencil until the commercial break ended.

 _And we’re back. Here with me now is Eric Muller, a spokesperson for Viacom. Thank you for coming here today, Mr. Muller._  
  
 _No problem, Ms. Kelly,_ the man replied.   
  
_Now, you have some more information about this pending case to share with us,_ Kelly asked.  
  
 _More like I have some context to put the information you already have in,_ he said. _I’m hoping to shed some light on exactly why we found Mr. O’Reilly’s use of 53 and 72 to be actionable._ Muller explained.  
  
 _Well then. What new information do you have for us?_  
  
 _The first thing you need to know is how our request system works. As you know, my company was founded after sexual slavery- that is, training and using slaves specifically or exclusively for sex- was banned, but we found that barring sex entirely didn’t work very well for anyone, slaves included. So the request system was implemented to facilitate that. Freemen can request a slave after their working hours are over, that request goes through a processing system to filter out potential risks before-_  
  
 _An automatic system, or are there people who review it?_ Kelly asked.   
  
_Both. A computer pulls up all the relevant information about both the requestor and the requestee- things like health issues, or behavioral problems- and raises a red flag for the person who does issue the notice of consent from the executive office. The computer also dispenses information to the requestor about the requestee, and asks that they confirm their request. Once both the executive office and requestor have confirmed, then the notice of consent goes to the requestee, who then decides whether or not they are up for the extra work._  
  
“What.”   
  
Almost everyone said the word, in tones ranging from flat disbelief to complete outrage. Jon and Sarah looked up from their work, and turned their attention to the screen.  
  
 _So your slaves **do** have a great deal of control over who they sleep with,_ Kelly said. _Does that work?_  
  
 _Yes,_ Muller confirmed, with such a straight face that Stephen wondered if he even knew he was lying. _I know that you’re thinking that, given the choice, hardly anyone would choose the extra hours, but being requested often comes with benefits- access to the outside world, entertainment, junk food, and other luxury items- we don’t provide our property with. Giving them the choice just makes for healthier, more productive workers. We have a very hands-off approach to handling our slaves in general, and we’ve found that they’re much more obedient that way._  
  
 _Why don’t you tell us a little about that approach?_  
  
Stephen looked down at his notepad. It was shaking; his hands were shaking.  
  
“Well,” he said, at a complete loss for anything more descriptive. He looked back up at the screen.

 _When it comes to minor infractions- unsatisfactory work or the like, we don’t use corporeal punishment at all. We take away privileges instead- cutlery, having curtains to darken the lights, access to hot water, and such. For problems of insubordination, we’ve found that shock therapy is surprisingly effective. It hurts enough to get the point across, and there’s no real physical damage, so there’s very little production lost in a recovery period. For acts of violence, or for those slaves with heart issues, we use sensory deprivation. We rarely have to resort to that, however. As a general rule, our slaves are very well behaved._  
  
“Well fuck that,” Olivia said, throwing her pencil down on the floor.   
  
“Uh, how?” Aasif asked, but he was drowned out by the general rumbling of agreement. Stephen didn’t say anything: he couldn’t have torn his eyes away from the screen if he wanted to.  
  
 _And how does this work with your case against Mr. O’Reilly?_ Kelly asked.  
  
 _Very well,_ Muller replied. _For one thing, it invalidates the claim that 52 and 73- sorry, 53 and 72- were rented to O’Reilly for discipline, because they didn’t need discipline. 72 had some behavioral issues at his first assignment that resurfaced briefly, but as I said, our system of discipline is very effective. He’s been very docile these past five years, and we’ve never had any problems with 53 at all._  
  
Stephen couldn’t help but look at Jon then. At some point, his face had turned parchment white, but was now turning purple. He turned back to the screen in time to catch Muller apparently responding to a question.  
  
 _It seems very clear, in retrospect, that Mr. O’Reilly was threatening them. We have audio of him telling 53 that he knew he was defying the regulations, but he was going to do it anyway, and if 53 tried to leave, no one would believe him. There’s plenty to indicate, from other audio and from the statements we took from 53 and 72 that he’d made those kinds of statements before. They thought they didn’t have a choice, and that we wouldn’t back them up if they complain. It was a breakdown in communication with our property, and we’re working to correct that, but it doesn’t change the fact that O’Reilly crossed a line, and he knew it._

 _It’ll certainly be interesting to see how this all pans out in court,_ Kelly said with a broad smile. _Thank you for coming, Mr. Muller._  
  
“What the fuck?” Sarah said. “What the actual, literal fuck?”  
  
“I say we rush Karlin and the guards when they come to let us out for lunch,” Olivia said.  
  
“Whoa, slow down there!” Wyatt said.  
  
“These chairs are heavy enough to do some damage,” Al pointed out.  
  
“Guys,” Aasif said, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by Jon, who shouted. “Hey!”  
  
It was loud and sudden enough to get everyone’s attention. “Were you not paying attention?” Jon continued. “They’re listening.”  
  
The TV shut off. Everyone was silent, and still.  
  
“I give it ten seconds before Karlin rushes in with a posse,” Jon added.

It took eight, by Stephen’s count. The guards stayed out in the hall, but were painfully visible just outside the doorway. New Guy was with them.  
  
Karlin spoke without preamble. “Listen very closely, because I only want to say this once: you have pretty privileged existences, for slaves. You aren’t doing manual labor. No one is asking you to handle chemicals, or biological waste. You’re here because you’re smart, and you’re funny. You aren’t here because you’re indispensible. You can be dispensed with at any time. I could get work orders to ship you back to the assignment center, or redistribute you to the kitchens, or the cleaning staff. Or, to make things look better, you could be given notices of consent every night until your work quality dropped enough to justify the transfer. And if any of you get any bright ideas about spreading this information around, or escaping: legally speaking, they don’t have to stop at electric shocks or sensory deprivation. For all of you, whether or not you all tried to defy the company. You're more than close enough that if any of you so much as attempt to escape, then it'll be assumed that you all knew, and probably helped.”  
  
He looked around the room, making sure to meet everyone’s eyes- going as far as to tilt Aasif’s head up when he continued to look down at his lap.   
  
“Understand?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” they replied dully. Karlin dropped Aasif’s face.  
  
“No lunch for today. Write your pieces. I’ll come back to check up on you in a couple of hours.” And with that he left.  
  
They were silent for a while. Jon got up and picked up Stephen’s notepad, and began to write. The TV turned back on, now tuned to the morning rerun of Countdown with Keith Olbermann. Al opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when Jon held up the pad. He returned it to Stephen, who read: _Whatever you plan, don’t plan it out loud._  
  
Jon sat back down and opened his book again. Eventually they found their wake back to their normal buzz of “Listen to this” and “Does this sound right to you?”, and managed to keep it up until they were finally let out for dinner.


	41. Servile, Part Twelve

Al got requested that night.  
  
“I’m sorry, ma’am, not tonight. I have a headache,” he told the guard. “Maybe another time, ma’am.”  
  
There was an audible whoosh as everyone’s heads whipped around to stare at him.  
  
“Very funny,” said the guard. “Take the damn collar.”  
  
“No, ma’am,” Al replied.   
  
The guard nodded, pulled out her stun gun, and discharged it against Al’s throat. He collapsed on the ground with a gurgle, and everyone at the table leapt out of their seat. Tim, Olivia, Wyatt, and Aasif checked to make sure he was breathing and picked him up off the ground, Sarah pulled out his chair so they could maneuver him into it more easily, and Stephen stood with Jon between the others and the guard.   
  
“Do you both want a shock too?” the guard threatened.  
  
“No ma’am,” Jon replied, addressing her shoulder. “You’ve made your point, ma’am, he’ll take the collar. Right, Al?”  
  
Stephen turned to see Al nod, still rubbing at his neck.  
  
“That’s a yes, ma’am,” he told her, turning back around.  
  
The guard waited a moment, and then handed the collar to Jon. “If he doesn’t show, I can make the three of you wish you were never born.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Jon said. “We know.”  
  
She nodded, and then walked away. Jon set the collar down gingerly on the table in front of Al, and everyone drifted back into their seats. Al took it angrily.   
  
“Sorry,” he said shortly. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”  
  
“You’re angry. And you have every right to be,” Jon said. “Though, I’d appreciate it if you picked your battles a little more carefully. I’ve had enough close encounters with the electrodes to last me my entire lifetime.”  
  
Al didn’t reply, and no one said anything else until they’d finished and begun drifting apart. Al went up to the guest rooms: everyone else went down to the slave quarters, Stephen following closely behind Jon. New Guy was, thankfully, nowhere to be seen, but Stephen didn’t feel like taking chances, particularly now, when he already felt hollowed out and raw.

Stephen took the shower first, and was lying down on the far side of the bed when Jon returned. He’d taken longer than usual, and there was an unreadable expression on his face. It was a surprise. Stephen had figured he’d be openly angry by now, and he said as much.  
  
“About- about what they told everyone on the news this morning?” Jon asked. He wasn’t looking at Stephen. He stared up at the top bunk instead. “I am, I mean, I will be, just- are you still up for that conversation?”  
  
It took Stephen a moment to remember what he was talking about. Part of his forgetfulness was the enormity of what happened: the extent to which Viacom was lying about the conditions their slaves were kept under, the lengths at which they were willing to go keep it more or less a secret, Al beginning to fray around the edges. He was also worried about the pleading note he heard in Jon’s voice: he didn’t like it, and he didn’t know what was causing it.  
  
“I am if you are,” he said, propping himself up on his side to give Jon his full attention.  
  
Jon gave a short, bitter, laugh. “I’ll never be ready for this conversation.”  
  
“We don’t have to have it,” Stephen said, reaching out to touch Jon’s shoulder. Jon flinched, his eyes closing, and Stephen withdrew his hand quickly.  
  
“No,” Jon said, not opening his eyes. “No, if nothing else- you should know what you’re sleeping with, here. I mean-”  
  
“Jon?” Stephen interrupted. This was going nowhere good at all, Jon was clearly _already_ in a very bad place. “I promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”  
  
The joke fell flat. “I-” Jon said. His face screwed up for a moment, and then he took a couple of deep breathes and visibly forced himself to relax. “I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you.”  
  
The words sounded hollow. Stephen obviously didn’t know enough about what was going on in Jon’s head to say anything constructive, so he waited in silence, rather than risk eating his own foot again.  
  
“It- you know what Muller said about slaves consenting because it got them benefits? It was like that, with the supe, at first. I mean, I wasn’t looking for luxury items- I was. They didn’t have any sort of request system there, it didn’t matter what kind of work load you’d been given, and all of the male slaves slept together in one big room, so it seemed like if one of them didn’t get you in the night- and there were some real nasty people in there, who were in service for rape or murder, they ran things when the guards weren't around- if they didn't get you in the night, they got you in the shower, or they got you during lunch or after dinner or during a rest period, or the guards got you and any time of day they pleased. Or a combination of- and I just figured one- one person would be easier to deal with. So he asked me to act as his personal attendant and I said yes and- and- and- you know, it wasn’t completely terrible? At first? I mean, in the beginning it was pretty predictable and straightforward and he used lube when lube was needed. It was better than most of the shit I’d have to put up with before, and- I don’t know. I let my guard down, I guess. I didn’t- he wanted me to come, so I figured I should just- just try to let myself enjoy it. While I waited for my term to end. Maybe- I don’t know. I think- something- I just-”  
  
He stopped, gasped in a few deep breathes, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Stephen held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe.   
  
“It- it carried over. To when things started getting bad- and getting even worse. When I wanted to get out, but couldn’t because he wasn’t going to leave me to the others, he’d set them on me. It was still there. That letting myself- I still- I still _came_ I still- I hated it but that didn’t stop me from- _enjoying_ it, in a sick, twisted way. And even- it’s still there. I mean, it’s not just there when I’ve been requested, I dream about it, sometimes. I have _wet dreams_ about it.”  
  
Jon swallowed audibly, and opened his eyes, staring up at the bottom of the top bunk's mattress. He didn’t look at Stephen, but Stephen looked at him, his gaze riveted to Jon’s face.  
  
“So, uh. Sorry for waking you up last night. And, uh, and the case of blue balls, I guess. I’m- I’m kind of really completely fucked up. It’s- I had kind of being hoping I could, hide it, and I know it’s, it’s disgusting, so. I’m sorry about that too.”

Jon looked over at Stephen. He was very still, but his eyes were dark with fear.   
  
“Is it okay if I give you a hug?” Stephen asked, bereft of anything else to do.  
  
Jon rolled on his side and held out an arm. Stephen all but flung himself at him, wrapping his arms around Jon and holding him close.  
  
 _Don’t pin him down,_ he thought, rolling so that Jon was on top of him. _Don’t do anything that might come across as sexual._  
  
He ended up squeezing Jon’s left hand tightly in his own and rubbing his other hand in soothing circles on Jon’s back. Jon clutched at Stephen’s shoulder with his free hand and took deep, deliberate breaths through his nose.   
  
God, he’d thought Jon had managed to escape this. He’d thought Jon had managed to come this far with _less_ problems with sex than Stephen had: he’d thought that if Jon had any issues that they’d be obvious, that he’d be able to tell, that he’d be _told_. He’d never imagined that Jon would be hurt and try to hide it from him- that Jon would be afraid of how he would react.  
  
“Thank you,” Jon said, quietly.  
  
“Don’t,” Stephen said. “Don’t, _Jon_ …”  
  
Jon raised his head, his face heavy with anxiety.   
  
“It’s not your fault, none of that is your doing,” Stephen said. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”  
  
Jon groaned. “Stephen…”  
  
“You were on your own, and what was- is- happening to you is horrible,” Stephen said. “You had to find some way to make it bearable. It’s nothing I don’t do with the pills.”  
  
“But it’s not the pills,” Jon insisted dejectedly. “It’s just me. It’s been beaten into me so hard now that I get turned on by being- being hurt and used without even having to think about it. Or- or maybe it’s been there the whole time, and I just never noticed. It didn’t exactly come up when I was free.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,”’ Stephen insisted, before his brain caught up with his mouth. “Or, no, it only matters because it’s hurting you.”  
  
“You’re not listening,” Jon said. “It’s _me_ , it’s a part of me, it colors how I think and act and a lot of the time I don’t realize it until after it’s already happened.”  
  
He rolled off of Stephen: Stephen turned with him, spooning behind him, remembering not to throw an arm over his waist at the last second.  
  
“ _You’re_ not listening,” he said. “You’re not disgusting, and how you’re reacting isn’t disgusting. What’s being done to you is disgusting, and it’s been happening for, what now, twelve years? Going on thirteen? Of course that’s going to have an effect.”  
  
Jon turned around to face him again.  
  
“You’re doing as well as anyone has any right to expect you to be doing,” Stephen said.  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said. He clearly didn’t believe it, but was unwilling to continue to conversation. “Okay.”  
  
“We’ll find a way to manage it, the same way we manage everything else,” Stephen said. When it didn’t make an impact, he tentatively put his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon slung an arm around Stephen’s waist in return, and Stephen held him close, trying to do with touch what he’d failed to do with words.  
  
It wasn’t long after than when he started becoming drowsy, and almost no time at all after than when he actually fell asleep. It had been a couple of nights since he had a nightmare, so he supposed he was due. He dreamed he got stuck in the crawlspace of the old house- on James Island- and something wrapped its arms around him from behind and squeezed on his throat. His mother shouted for him to come downstairs for dinner, her voice growing increasingly angry as Stephen choked and struggled, his vision blurring.   
  
Jon woke him up quickly. He spent a few minutes trembling, and then calmed down enough to thank Jon and arrange himself more comfortably against his body. He fell asleep with the steady thump of Jon’s heart sounding in his good ear about half an hour later, and knew nothing more until the wake-up whistle sounded in the morning.


	42. Servile, Part Thirteen

Jon was completely out of it that morning, though he was far from the only one. Al showed up for breakfast with his wrists bandaged and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and everyone else was clearly still processing what had happened yesterday.  
  
 _I don’t know why I’m so angry,_ Olivia scribbled onto a scrap of paper she passed to him along with the sketch she wanted him to look at. _I knew they were lying about what happened here._  
  
 _I wasn’t expecting them to tell people that we agreed- and had the option to disagree- to be fucked. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that._ Stephen added, before turning his attention to his work.  
  
 _I know. I would have been expecting them to lie about their renting us out for sex, except they obviously couldn’t do that._ Wyatt wrote, leaning over Stephen’s shoulder to do so.   
  
Jon had an actor to prepare for today, and therefore comparatively little to do. He snagged the paper, and after a few minutes returned it with _I would have thought they would have lied and said that they primarily considered our safety when deciding who to let have us, and down play how often we’re rented for sex. I’m not sure why they would stretch the truth that for. I’m even less sure why they’d let us know they were stretching the truth that far. Doesn’t Karlin have the remote?_ added to it.  
  
No one could answer that one, so the sheet of paper stayed there, until Al smuggled it out under his shirt and threw it away with his trash during lunch.   
  
Stephen checked in at the medics after dinner. He wasn’t surprised when he was taken off restricted duty: he hadn’t bothered with the salve lately, the stitches had dissolved, and his scabs were starting to flake off in the shower. What was surprising was that he didn’t recognize the doctor who examined him: he was creepy, young, and his hands kept wandering along Stephen’s ass until he wanted to snap at him to just get it over with.  
  
He wasn’t fucked, though. He was let go after the doctor did nothing more than give him a slap on the tailbone. Jon waited out in the hall, and his eyes narrowed as he took in Stephen’s appearance, which probably showed his fraying nerves.

“Did it go okay?” Jon asked.   
  
“I’ve healed up enough to get off restricted duty,” Stephen replied. “I just- had a creep of a doctor. He’s new I think- a young guy.”  
  
Jon nodded, looking perturbed. “How- how creepy are we talking here, exactly?”  
  
“Gropey-creepy,” Stephen replied. “Hopefully he stays at about that level.”  
  
New Guy- the guard, not the doctor- was by the elevator. They turned, without needing to discuss it, and took the stairs. Jon got progressively more skittish the closer they got to their quarters. Stephen still wasn’t sure what to do- he wasn’t even sure that there was anything to do. He decided to act like there was nothing wrong unless Jon wanted to talk. He washed Jon’s hair in the shower. They cuddled a bit, before going to bed, and talked about the music they liked. If Jon was clinging more tightly to him than was usual, then Stephen was hardly going to complain. He’d let Jon handcuff them together if it would make him feel more secure, and it wasn’t like he didn’t cling back.  
  
Saturday was generally a lazy day for them, as there wasn’t a broadcast, but today Karlin came in with a binder full of new instructions to drill them on how they could and could not write about the ongoing business with O’Reilly. The guards didn’t stay in the hallway this time, but rather milled around in the writer’s room, wandering in and out of their personal space at will while Karlin lectured. New Guy spent the entire time leaning over the back of Stephen’s chair: another guard spent a good twenty minutes running his fingers down the back of Al’s neck, and then moved to comb them through Olivia’s hair. At one point he heard Jon make a startled noise, but he couldn’t turn around to check.  
  
“Well,” Jon said with a shaky smile after they’d left. He hair was mussed, but he seemed okay otherwise. “I hope everyone is feeling well intimidated because I, personally, would rather that not happen again.”  
  
They were _very_ well intimidated. Everyone was anxious and twitchy, and even less work got done than usual. Stephen’s mind kept jumping around, from O’Reilly to New Guy to Jon, until he finally had a horrible thought halfway through dinner.  
  
“You don’t feel like that when we’re having sex, do you?” he asked, once they were back in their quarters. Jon started. “Like you hate that you enjoy it?”  
  
“I-” Jon said, his eyes blown wide. “I- no! No, of course not.” He ran his hands through his hair. “We’re- it’s different with you. You’re different.”  
  
He turned at walked into the bathcorner, leaving Stephen to figure out how he should parse that. He still hadn’t managed it when they lay down for bed that night.

Jon hadn’t slept very much yesterday night, or the night before. He must have at some point that night though, because a few hours before the wake-up whistle he woke up to find Jon was moving around in the bathcorner, a wet spot drying on the sheets. After a minute or so he returned, freezing when he saw that Stephen was awake.  
  
They looked at each other for a moment, mostly to confirm that they both knew what was going to happen. _I’m sorry,_ Jon would say. _It’s not your fault,_ Stephen would tell him.  
He decided to skip ahead in the script a little, and held out his arms for Jon. Jon stayed put.   
  
“You can’t be getting anything out of this,” Jon said derisively.  
  
“Post-nightmare cuddles?” Stephen retorted. “I’m pretty sure they’re one of the main things keeping me sane.”  
  
Jon huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed, and Stephen made a note to give him some breathing room the next time they had a night like this. “This isn’t you wanting to pull away, and feeling guilty about it, or like you can’t, is it?” Jon asked. “Because, I promise Stephen, I won’t hold it against you if you need some space for a while. I’ll give you as much of it as I can.”  
  
The words sounded rehearsed. Stephen sat up and looked at Jon, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Not too long ago, he’d thought he was very good at tell where Jon’s head was at, but either O’Reilly had beaten that skill out of him or Jon was deliberately trying to shut him out.  
  
“Do you want space?” Stephen asked.  
  
“No,” Jon said immediately. “Well, not from you. I’d _love_ to get away from me for a while. I can’t stand to be around me, I don’t know how you’re doing it.”  
  
“Post-nightmare cuddles,” Stephen reminded him. “Otherwise I’d probably be gibbering to myself in the corner of a bargain bin somewhere.”  
  
Jon leaned into him, and they lay back down. The curtain was still open, but the light fell on the foot of the bed, and so it was only a few minutes later that Jon fell asleep, breathing slowly and deeply against Stephen’s collarbone. Watching Jon sleep was a rare experience for Stephen, so he did his best to memorize the look and feel of it before he too drifted off.   
  
The nightmare that night was spectacular. Jon knelt between O’Reilly and a giant, shadowy figure he _knew_ was the supe. He was bleeding, but before Stephen could run for him his siblings came out of nowhere began throwing various cleaning supplies at him, shouting at him to finish his chores before he played with his friends. The dustpan clipped him on the side of his head, and he fell to the floor as a canister of baby powder burst open and filled to room with dust. Stephen choked, coughing and spluttering: he could hear Jon screaming, but he couldn’t see, he couldn’t even breathe.  
  
He woke up screaming into Jon’s chest, and hadn’t quite managed to pull himself together when the wake-up whistle sounded. Jon made no move to get up for the day until Stephen had calmed down enough to function.

 _You help me,_ Stephen thought about saying that day. It was Sunday, which meant there wasn’t a lot to do, but browse the little library for new books and wait for their turn on the roof for some sunshine. He hadn’t gone to services that morning, because it wasn’t a holiday and Father Martin wasn’t visiting. _Why won’t you let me help you?_  
  
He wouldn’t say it though. It was too emotionally manipulative, too likely to cause Jon to default back to the habits he used for dealing with freemen. He didn’t want to force Jon to do anything. He just wanted Jon to stop beating himself up.  
  
“You okay?” Jon asked him as they wandered around the roof.  
  
“I’m fine,” Stephen replied. He wanted to reach out and squeeze Jon’s hand to reassure him of that fact, but New Guy was among their guards today, and he was trying not to draw attention to himself. They’d have to talk later, assuming they would talk. He still had no idea what to say, so if Jon didn’t bring it up, he’d leave it be for now.  
  
Jon brought it up. After dinner, when they returned to their quarters, Jon rounded on him the moment the door was closed. “Seriously, you’ve been staring at me all day. What gives?”  
  
Stephen wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The longer he searched for the words, the more agitated Jon became.  
  
“Look- I’m fucked up, I’m really, seriously fucked up. And I don’t want that to fuck you up too,” Jon said. “If there’s something I should be doing-”  
  
“You’re not fucking me up!” Stephen interrupted. “You couldn’t possibly-”  
  
“Well you’re walking around looking like I’ve pissed on your dog, so I’ve clearly done something,” Jon snapped back.  
  
Stephen sucked in a deep breath and held it for a count of five. He didn’t want to start an argument. That was the exact opposite of what he wanted. “I’m worried. You’re hurting and I don’t know how to help.”  
  
Jon raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
“You don’t seem to want to be touched after you wake up- which I totally get! I just- if I can’t touch you, and whenever you’ve talked about it you keep-”  
  
“Well maybe I don’t want to talk about it! Maybe I want to shove it all back to wherever it was hiding before it started invading my dreams!”  
  
“Do you?” Stephen asked.  
  
“I don’t know!” Jon said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know if there’s anything I can do about this. It’s _me_.”  
  
Stephen wanted to pull him into a hug, but everything about the way Jon held himself told Stephen that he was not looking to be touched right now.  
  
“Just- seriously Stephen. Don’t let me fuck you up.”  
  
“You won’t fuck me up,” Stephen said immediately.   
  
Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stephen…”  
  
“You aren’t going to fuck me up,” Stephen said. “Now, do you want the shower first, or should I go?”  
  
“You can have it,” Jon said, and Stephen nodded and went for the bathcorner, tamping down on the urges to seethe, cry, and shout all at the same time. It wouldn’t be fair: he wasn’t angry at Jon, but Jon was stuck in the same room as him until morning.  
  
Or, more accurately, he knew being angry at Jon was irrational and counterproductive but he couldn’t quite stop himself. It was all down to the same issue that came up again and again, compounded with helpless frustration: Jon protected him when he was far past the point where protection did him the slightest bit of good- and in this case, he was trying to spare Stephen at his own expense. How exactly did he think that having Stephen help him would fuck him up? He’d spent the past six years being rented out to O’Reilly roughly once a month, in addition to several one-off sessions with other people. His own family had left him here to rot without so much as a mass-mailed Christmas letter. Whatever fucking up there was to do, it’d been done.   
  
Huh. That was the first time he’d admitted that was what had happened.

He went through the motions of rinsing off and changing clothes while he waited for the inevitable freak-out. It still hadn’t hit when Jon did up the curtains and lay down next to him, so he pushed that aside to be dealt with later.  
  
He turned on his side and threw an arm over Jon’s waist. “Okay?”  
  
Jon snuggled back against him and threaded his fingers through Stephen’s. “Yeah.”  
  
Stephen pressed a kiss on the back of Jon’s neck. “I’m sorry I was short with you earlier. If you want to talk, I’m here and I’ll listen.”  
  
“Not now,” Jon said. “Maybe- maybe sometime later, but not now.”  
  
“Okay,” Stephen said, giving his hand a squeeze.  
  
They lay there quietly; the only sounds were their breathing, and the click and buzz of the cycles changing over. Stephen fell asleep shortly thereafter.   
  
Some hours later, he woke up sobbing into his pillow, Jon shaking him frantically by the shoulder. He shook uncontrollably, hardly daring believe that had been a nightmare as Jon tucked the blankets around him and stroked through his hair.   
  
“You’re okay, you’re okay, it’s just a nightmare,” Jon soothed.  
  
“They bought you,” Stephen gasped out. “My family bought you and they took you away and they left me here.”  
  
Jon’s arm tightened around him. “It’s just a nightmare,” he repeated.  
  
Stephen buried his face in the side of Jon’s neck, trying to ground himself enough to stop shaking. _Jon is here,_ he told himself, pressing in tight enough to feel Jon’s pulse beating against his lips. _He’s not due to leave for years. Nobody is being sold. Your family-_ He choked on a sob. Jon began rubbing circles on the small of his back, and the hand in Stephen’s hair stilled.   
  
“I just don’t understand,” Stephen said, after he’d managed to calm down enough that the shakes were now occasional tremors. “I know my family: they wouldn’t do this. Not to me, not to anyone. They wouldn’t leave me here, no matter what I’d done, and if they were having trouble with the money they’d at least send me a note. They wouldn’t do this, but it’s happened.”  
  
“I know. And I’m sorry,” Jon said quietly. “You’re the last person on the planet this should have happened to.”  
  
He was glad Jon didn’t try to assure him that his family was terrible. He would still have felt compelled to defend them and he didn’t really have the energy for it. “Thank you,” he said.  
  
“You don’t have to-” Jon began. Stephen cupped the side of his face and shifted so that they were looking at each other.   
  
“ _Thank you,_ ” he said again, and kissed Jon chastely on the lips. Jon kissed back, his hands carding through Stephen’s hair and come to rest on his nape. Stephen broke the kiss and settled against Jon’s side. Jon continued to cradle his head, and he was back asleep within minutes.


	43. Servile, Part Fourteen

Stephen felt vulnerable that morning, off-kilter and exposed. Jon stuck to him like glue, which helped a little. It kept him from crumpling, at least, when he accidentally met New Guy’s eyes in the mirror when he was shaving, and was leered at in return.

He wondered why New Guy didn’t simply get it over with. Maybe he didn’t have enough money for a night yet. Maybe he was just waiting to catch Stephen on his own.   
  
He pushed those thoughts away so he could focus on his work, and found himself focusing on Jon instead. He still didn’t know how to help him, and it was beginning to truly sink in that there might not be anything he could do. It wasn’t right- it wasn’t fair. Jon was hurt often enough without this adding to it. He might just have to take his own advice and treat it like they did his nightmares: something to be managed rather than cured. He could do that. He could figure out what would calm Jon down after a bad dream, and assure him that it wasn’t his fault until it maybe sank in. He just wished there was a way for him to make it stop.  
  
The sketch he produced that morning was barely usable, so he spent the afternoon rewriting it with Helms’ input. Karlin came in with a request for Aasif, and dinner that evening was a quiet, subdued affair. They were showing the theatrical version of The Two Towers again that night, but Olivia wasn’t in the mood, and Stephen’s enthusiasm was half hearted at best. They all ended up skipping it, and turning in early.   
  
“So, what is it about Lord of the Rings that gets you so excited anyway?” Jon asked later that night, after they’d both showered and were settling in for the night. There was a kind of desperation in his voice, like he was hoping that talking about this would deter Stephen from talking about Jon’s issues.  
  
So Stephen talked for a while about the importance of the Shire and how he didn’t like what the movies had done to Faramir while Jon offered sarcastic commentary. Then he talked about picking up a sci-fi book to read after Dad’s funeral while Jon stayed silent and listened. He fell asleep with his head on Jon’s shoulder, and didn’t dream.  
  
It was a good thing, too, as he really needed that rest the following day when Olivia handed him a piece of paper with the words _Here’s some ideas for an escape plan. Thoughts?_ on it.  
  
There were details on there too, of course: about guard movements and camera placements and the amount of space between the greenhouse roof and the ground, and the availability of cars in the garage just past the loading dock. Stephen read it twice, and then pasted it to Jon without comment.

Jon passed it back to Stephen a few minutes later. _What do we do about the chips?_ he’d written.   
  
Stephen didn’t know the answer to that, so he sent the paper back to Olivia, and by the time he got it back there was more.  
  
 _The chips?_ Wyatt had written.  
  
 _Shit. Do they act as a trackers outside the Estate too?_ Aasif had added.  
  
 _They do if the Estate hands the codes over to the FBI. Hopefully by the time we do that we’ll be in New York. There are places there that will block the signal, and other places that will take the chips out. We only need to be in the car for twenty minutes._  
  
He passed it on to Jon, who read it quickly, and then scribbled before returning it to Stephen. _They also have some kind of fail safe. I don’t know what it is exactly, but if it’s activated, you experience some pretty debilitating pain followed by an inability to move for several hours. We’d need something to block the signal before we left._  
  
 _That’s news to me._ Stephen wrote. The paper went around the table more quickly this time, and Stephen snagged Al’s sketch and began critiquing it out loud to counter the unnatural silence that had descended on the room.  
  
 _That wasn’t in the talk I got during orientation._ Tim wrote.  
  
 _I heard rumors about that. But I didn’t believe them._ Aasif added.  
  
Jon took the paper from Stephen and handed it back with the words _It’s real. That’s how they caught me the last time I tried to escape. Granted, that was a really spur of the moment thing, so they probably would have caught me anyway, but the point is they didn’t have to do anything else. One jolt and I was completely incapable of anything more than lying still for hours._ added to the bottom.  
  
Stephen passed the paper on without comment. Jon had told him his failed escape attempt story twice: one short, terse version shortly after Stephen arrived, and another longer one, focused mostly on what the supe had done to him, around the time that it started sinking in that he was going to keep being requested by O’Reilly for a long while to come. This particular detail hadn’t been in either version.  
  
To the best of his knowledge, no one else knew he’d even made an escape attempt. Wyatt might: Stephen honestly couldn’t remember if Wyatt had arrived the year before or the year after Jon, and he supposed it might have been talked about when it was a more recent happening. Everyone else was certainly just finding out now. When he got the paper back, there was only one thing written on it: _Fuck_ in Olivia’s handwriting. Al had underlined it twice.  
  
They went back to work, the noise level rising back up to normal. Sarah took the paper with her during lunch, and tore it into several pieces, then threw it away in her napkin. They spent the period after lunch avoiding the topic entirely, and helping Aasif polish his bit in between their normal half-assed attempts to look productive.

That night was a bad one. The food was worse than usual. He was requested that night- not by either New Guy or Creepy Doctor, but still…  
  
He wished that there was some way to make the effects of the blue pills wear off when he wanted them to- another pill to take, perhaps. But having to jerk off once or twice afterwards was not nearly enough to keep him from taking them in the first place.   
  
He _needed_ to be just barely there, while it was happening. He had to be able to respond to orders, of course, but beyond what little awareness was needed to avoid making it worse he wanted nothing to do with what was done to him.  
  
Jon was waiting up when he got back. “How are you?” he asked.  
  
“Fine. Just let me change my clothes and brush my teeth, I’ll join you in a minute,” Stephen said.   
  
He’d just had to eat her out a few times while her husband watched. It wasn’t the worst that could happen. It wasn’t going to cause any damage and it was much harder to choke on a vagina than it was to choke on a penis.   
  
And that was the last he was going to think about it.  
  
He flopped face-down on the bed with a small groan, and Jon ran a hand through his hair and down to the nape of his neck. His hand stayed there for a moment, then Stephen felt Jon dig his finger tips into one of the knots there, working it gently until it dissolved. Stephen groaned.  
  
“Okay?” Jon asked.  
  
“Keep going,” Stephen replied.

  
Jon smirked. Stephen rolled his eyes, and then had to close them as Jon began to rub away the tension he was carrying. He kind of floated for a while, but about the time Jon finished with his shoulders he realized that he was hard again, and in very real danger of coming in his pants.  
  
“Mmm,” he said, rolling over. He’d meant for there to be words, but Jon seemed to get that he wasn’t put off by anything so much as he needed a moment. He got up, walked to the bathcorner, and jerked off with his shoulders tingling with relief, imagining all the ways Jon’s hands could press against his body. It didn’t take very long.   
  
He crawled into bed again and sprawled against Jon with a sigh. Having been requested was safely compartmentalized, and he was the most relaxed he’d been in a good long while. He was severely disappointed when Jon insisted on getting up to close the curtains, and flopped down over him as soon as Jon was within range.   
  
“Okay?” he mumbled into the crown of Jon’s head.   
  
“Yeah,” Jon replied, folding his arm over Stephen’s.  
  
“Good,” Stephen said. “Because you’re also comfy.”  
  
He drifted off. He woke up some hours later, his heart pounding in his throat, but Jon had caught the nightmare early. It didn’t take much for him to calm down enough to fall back asleep, and when the wake-up whistle sounded, he was almost well-rested.  
  
He was also, as he waited in line to take the STD test, inclined towards plotting a little. Not about anything big- he didn’t really have any idea how to deal with all the talk of slavery in the news, other than to stick close to the guidelines and hope that kept the guards out in the hall. He couldn’t do anything about escaping either: it wasn’t like he couldn’t come up with ideas, more like he couldn’t come up with ideas that didn’t involve leaving the others behind to suffer. No, if they were going to escape, it had to be done with the eight of them as a group, and that was pretty fucking unlikely. Kucinich would probably get that abolition bill to the White House first.  
  
But he could certainly figure out a way to make things a little better while they were stuck here. Jon’s birthday was coming up: they didn’t normally do anything to celebrate birthdays, mostly because there wasn’t really anything they could do. That had been before he and Jon had started euphemistically sleeping together, though: most of what they had before had been a necessity, not a choice. Not that it hadn’t been enjoyable or affectionate, but Stephen couldn’t imagine _not_ helping Jon when he was injured, and imagining sleeping without him in the bed _hurt_. The sex was… chooseable. So, clearly, he could choose to spend an evening making Jon feel as good as possible.

 


	44. Servile, Part Fifteen

The next few days were okay. Al was requested, once, buts he showed up the next morning looking fairly normal and let Aasif fret over him for a few moments until it was clear that he wasn’t injured. New Guy continued to be almost everywhere Stephen was- watching them shave, in the hall outside the writer’s room, delivering collars, patrolling outside the cafeteria- but he didn’t make a move. Jon received a letter from his brother- it didn’t touch on the recent developments other than to say that he was keeping an eye on it, and he knew the company line was bullshit. Instead, the bulk of the letter consisted of news from Jon’s family and questions about Stephen: what was he in service for, what had he been doing before, what was his family like…  
  
The answers were debt, whatever acting jobs he could land, and no longer in the picture, in that order.  
  
“Do you want me to include some more information: your surname, some first names, the fact that you’re from Charleston?” Jon asked. “Larry could probably look them up in the phone book, at least.”  
  
“I-” Stephen worried at his lower lip. “I don’t know.”  
  
He didn’t think he could bear the confirmation that his family really had abandoned him. It was why he’d never asked Jon to do this for him in the first place.  
  
“You don’t have to decide now,” Jon said. “There’ll be other letters.”  
  
Stephen nodded, and wasn’t surprised when the nightmares were especially bad that night.  
  
Thanksgiving came and went, with the canned cranberry sauce that tasted like chemicals, surly guards made even surlier by their need to work on a holiday, and the laziness of the Friday workday when there was no show airing that night. Jon read through whatever of next week’s books Karlin gave him: Stephen hunted around for stories that would keep until Monday. They were productive- it probably made no difference whatsoever, but he liked to think it kept them from being requested on Jon’s birthday.   
  
The day itself was pretty much uneventful- it was a Sunday, so a good half of the references to the fact that Jon was turning forty-two were down to sheer boredom. Al twisted a bow out of his napkin and spent a good hour trying to convince Jon to wear it on his head. Olivia had a heated argument with Sarah over whether or not they could get away with singing “Happy Birthday” if they did it very quietly. Then it was their turn for the greenhouse: New Guy wasn’t posted on the roof, so he could actually relax and enjoy himself a bit.   
  
When the guards came around with collars that night, he nearly panicked, momentarily convinced that one or both of them had been requested, but they didn’t even come near their table. He breathed a sigh of relief, and walked back to their quarters shoulder to shoulder with Jon, New Guy’s eyes upon them until they rounded the corner.   
  
They shared a shower, which seemed to move naturally to making out on the edge of the bed without bothering to dress.

“So, hey,” Jon said, when Stephen had started kissing down his neck. “Did you get me a birthday present?”  
  
Stephen hummed against his Adam’s apple, smiling when that made him shiver. “Yep.”  
  
“Is it… your dick?” Jon teased.  
  
Stephen laughed. “Not exactly.”  
  
“Oh?” Jon asked, and there was genuine surprise in his voice. Stephen raised his head so he could look Jon in the eye.  
  
“I’m pretty sure you’ll still like it- and if you don’t, just say the word and I’ll stop.”   
  
“Okay,” Jon replied. “Is there anything in particular I should do, or…”  
  
“It’s your birthday,” Stephen replied, playing with the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck. “But- do you think you’ll be okay lying down on your stomach?”  
  
Jon visibly thought that one over. “I should be, as long as you’re not going to be right on top of me.” There was a beat as he shifted, and then he added, “Are you sure my present isn’t your dick?”  
  
“Pretty sure,” Stephen replied. He was also pretty sure that, from the way Jon laid down with his legs spread, that he was being thought a liar.  
  
Well, he would just have to prove him wrong then.  
  
Stephen knelt between Jon’s thighs and leaned over Jon’s back, to better press his thumbs into the base of his neck. The muscles were bunched together and hard beneath his skin, and he worked them loose as gently as possible.   
  
“Okay?” he asked  
  
“Ye-es,” Jon replied, the word breaking as Stephen increased the pressure he was putting on a particularly stubborn knot.  
  
“You sure?” he asked.  
  
Jon let out a low, contented hum. Stephen figured that was permission to keep going.  
  
They didn’t speak for a while, as Stephen worked his way down Jon’s back. Jon limited himself to pleased sounds that were muffled by the pillow, and Stephen divided his attention between drinking them in and trying to release the worst of the tension he could feel in Jon’s body. He’d hoped, between how good it had felt when Jon had done this to him, and the way that Jon sometimes melted against him when he rubbed his back, that this would be good. He was glad to find he was right. By the time Stephen started working his way down the curve of his lower back, Jon was nearly whimpering.  
  
“Still okay?” Stephen checked.  
  
Jon nodded.   
  
Stephen nodded to himself and began to work on the hollow of Jon’s back where sweat was beginning to pool. Jon was _definitely_ whimpering now, his hands fisted in the pillow. Stephen bit down on his lip to keep from joining him, especially when he’d finished with Jon’s back and reached his ass. Jon moaned and the contact, and again, louder, when Stephen squeezed in response. He shifted, spreading his legs even wider, and Stephen counted backwards from ten in an effort to retain a few shreds of self-control.  
  
“You okay back there?” Jon asked, in a passable attempt at a teasing tone.  
  
“I’m fine,” Stephen forced out. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears, and he could feel Jon squirm beneath his fingertips as he spoke. “You just let me know if something doesn’t feel right.”  
  
He shifted down on the bed, took a deep breath, and licked down the cleft of Jon’s ass. The reaction was immediate- “Holy shit Stephen!”- and pretty firmly positive, so he continued, holding Jon’s cheeks open so he could lick and tease at Jon’s entrance with his tongue.

The taste wasn’t exactly _good_ , but that wasn’t really the point. The point was the way Jon babbled about how good it felt, the way Stephen could feel him clenched around his tongue as he rubbed himself against the sheets with small, sharp, involuntary movements.   
  
“Fuck, Stephen, please, it’s so good, too good-” Jon babbled. Stephen pulled back enough to look up to where Jon was staring at him from over his shoulder, wild-eyed and beseeching. Then Jon surprised him by launching himself up on his knees, his hands clutching at the headboard.  
  
“Jon?” he asked, scrambling up.  
  
“Stephen,” Jon said, nearly growling. “Stephen, just stop teasing and _fuck me already_.”  
  
“Uh,” Stephen replied. He searched around for something more intelligent to say, and it was a while before he found one. All of the blood had left his head a long time ago, and he was a bit preoccupied with imagining what it would be like to press inside- as, apparently, Jon would let him, Jon would want him to. _Jesus Christ Almighty._ “There’s no lube,” was the first thing that came out.  
  
“ _Stephen_ ,” Jon whined.   
  
“I don’t-” he began, trying to think. Soap? No, there wasn’t much left from this month's ration and they’d had to water that down twice already. They had no shampoo, no conditioner, no lotion…  
  
Jon’s head landed on the headboard between his hands with a small thunk, his body curling slightly in upon itself. Maybe Stephen was projecting, but he didn’t think that the flush on Jon’s face was entirely arousal anymore.  
  
 _You probably should have asked this earlier,_ Stephen acknowledged to himself as he curled behind Jon, his arms around his waist and his head hooked on his shoulder.  
  
“Hey, Jon,” he said. “It’s your birthday, what do you want?”  
  
Jon huffed, and raised his head a little. “This is nice. But, maybe you could move your hands a little lower?”  
  
“Like this?” Stephen asked, cupping Jon’s balls in the palm of his hands. “And this?” He wrapped his other hand around Jon’s cock, his thumb swirling around the glans.   
  
Jon groaned, rocking back against Stephen’s erection, and then forwards into his touch. Stephen pressed a kiss into his neck, and Jon did it again, this time wriggling against him so that Stephen’s cock was pressing against his crack.   
  
“This?” Stephen asked, shifting so that his dick was pressed snuggly between Jon’s thighs, the tip brushing against Jon’s balls.  
  
“Yes, like that,” Jon moaned, rocking again. It was Stephen’s turn to whimper, muffled against Jon’s nape. They moved together like that for a while, Stephen nudging the head of his erection into Jon’s balls with every thrust, jerking him off and trying desperately not to come before he did. A few minutes later Jon grunted, and spilled into Stephen’s hand, and Stephen let himself go a few heartbeats later with a desperate-sounding whimper.   
  
They stayed slumped together against the headboard for a minute, then Stephen reluctantly peeled himself away, making noises that Jon seemed able to successfully interpret as “I’ll be back with a washcloth and your sleeping clothes in a minute.”  
  
He’d flopped over when Stephen returned, took the washcloth and clothes, and cleaned and dressed as Stephen pulled the curtains closed. He clambered on top of him, probably as much to avoid the wet spot as a desire to cuddle in the afterglow.  
  
 _Then again,_ Stephen thought, as Jon shifted so it was easier to lean down and kiss him. _Maybe not._  
  
They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses until Stephen could no longer stop himself from yawning.   
  
“Which one of us is the old one here?” Jon teased.  
  
“The awake one,” Stephen replied.   
  
Jon huffed, and Stephen could picture him rolling his eyes. He settled against Stephen’s side, a comforting and familiar weight that did absolutely nothing to ward off Stephen’s sleepiness.   
  
“Good night, sleepy-head,” Jon said mockingly.   
  
“Good night, Jon,” Stephen replied, no longer able to keep his eyes open. He drifted off between one heartbeat and the next, and didn’t dream.


	45. Servile, Part Sixteen

He woke up the next morning to the sound of Jon running water in the sink some time before the morning bell, the curtain open by the foot of the bed. He stretched, his back cracking, and he heard the water shut off. He didn’t bother moving, though: he was far too warm and comfortable for that, for all that the spot next to him where Jon had been lying was cooling rapidly.  
  
“Morning,” Jon called out.   
  
“Morning,” Stephen replied. “What time is it?”  
  
“I don’t know, let me check the clock,” Jon replied.  
  
“Ha ha,” Stephen retorted. “You know what I mean.”  
  
Jon ducked his head and climbed back into bed. “I think I got a solid six hours of sleep or so, so the wake-up whistle should be sounding within the hour.”  
  
Stephen nodded. Jon snuggled back up against him under the covers.   
  
“So- I kind of fell asleep last night…” Stephen began.  
  
“No, really?”   
  
Stephen rolled his eyes and gave Jon a gentle squeeze. “Yes, really. Anyway I was just wondering- that was okay, right?”  
  
“Yeah, I mean- what would make you think it wasn’t?” Jon asked, a wary, defensive note in his voice.   
  
Stephen remembered the moment- the thunk as Jon’s head dropped down- but clearly Jon didn’t want him to remember it, much less bring it up. Stephen was in a good mood. Jon was in a good mood. He decided to humor Jon instead.  
  
“It belatedly occurred to me that I probably should have asked you what you wanted for your birthday,” Stephen told him, and was rewarded with the feel of Jon relaxing against him.  
  
“Well, if you’re taking notes for Hanukkah, feel free to just try that again.”  
  
“I thought you'd lost track of when your holidays were?” He certainly had trouble keeping track of Easter.  
  
“Unless I missed something major, it’s still sometime in December,” Jon replied. “If we kept trying we’d probably hit at least one out of the eight nights.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that get a bit repetitive?”  
  
“You could always up your game,” Jon suggested.  
  
“You mean-” Stephen hesitated, and then decided to just push ahead. “We still don’t have any lube.”  
  
“I noticed,” Jon sighed. “Maybe we should try leaving one of your pills under the pillow for the sex fairy and see if she’ll leave us some in return.”  
  
Stephen snorted, rolling his eyes.   
  
“If nothing else, the fact that having no lube is just an inconvenience is new.”  
  
“I have the feeling the novelty will wear off shortly,” Stephen said with a put-upon grumble. Jon giggled.   
  
They lay there for a few moments more, until Stephen’s eyes began to grow heavy and, predictably, the wake-up whistle sounded. Then it was back to work.  
  
The schedule for next month’s guests was up, but they ignored it: the mob of people trying to get a good look at it meant there was a good chance at getting non-burnt toast and juice that had only been watered down once. Better yet, when they walked into the writer’s room, the news was discussing how _The O’Reilly Factor_ had been placed on hiatus. Ostensibly, this was so he could work on his book; in reality, Stephen sincerely wished that he never came back on air and had to take up working in a McDonald’s somewhere in order to make ends meet.  
  
The first hour or so he spent writing the character’s farewell to O’Reilly in between watching various talking heads discuss this latest development. Once he’d seen Hannity’s dire predictions about the state of the news business with O’Reilly gone, he was off, happily outlining and filling in the monologue for a full hour before Jon made a startled keening noise and more or less fell out of his chair.

It was more complicated than that: Stephen was pretty sure he’d actually been trying to stand up, but had gotten his legs tangled against one of the chair’s, and the fell into the edge of the table before sprawling on the floor, while everyone else in the room jumped at the noise.  
  
“I’m okay,” Jon said, his voice a good octave higher than usual. His face was absolutely bloodless, and his limbs seemed to be locked in place. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”  
  
Stephen gave himself an internal shake and got up to help Jon up. He was more than a little wobbly, so rather than righting his chair Stephen steered Jon over to the couch, still protesting that he was okay, _really_.  
  
“Well, as long as you’re okay I’ll just sit in this corner over here and sort through these notes,” Aasif said, and there was a general murmur of agreement as everyone made an effort to look busy while facing the opposite direction from them.  
  
“Jon?” Stephen asked.  
  
“You’re not going to believe me,” Jon said wryly.  
  
“Try me,” Stephen replied.   
  
“He’s the supe,” Jon said. “The guy who’s taking O’Reilly’s timeslot. He’s the supe.”  
  
“What?” Stephen asked, after a moment. “How-”  
  
Jon jerked his head towards the TV. Sometime after Stephen had stopped paying attention, it had started showing an interview with a man who, the subtitles confirmed, was taking O’Reilly’s timeslot for the duration of the hiatus. His name was Glenn Beck, and he was younger than Stephen expected him to be. Somewhere along the way he began picturing someone old, someone who might have been supervising slaves back when they still packed the brothels. This guy couldn’t be much older than Stephen was.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible that God actually hates me?” Jon attempted to joke. “I only ask because that’s more your area than mine.”  
  
“God doesn’t hate you,” Stephen automatically, before adding. “It’s entirely possible that someone at NewsCorp does, though.”  
  
“Oh,” Jon said distantly. “Well. Promising to give up bacon won’t work then.”  
  
Stephen could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest. If he let it out, he would laugh until he cried, and probably wouldn’t stop crying before Karlin came to let them out for lunch.

He probably should try not doing that again.  
  
“Probably not,” Stephen replied, and then before Jon could say anything more, called out. “Hey, could you guys pass us our stuff?”  
  
Tim handed them their material, and Stephen passed Jon’s stuff to him.   
  
“Just keep on being productive?” Jon asked.   
  
“If nothing else, it’s a distraction,” Stephen said, then admitted, “I don’t know what else to do right now.”  
  
Jon nodded in agreement, and that was all that was said about it for the rest of the day.


	46. Terms, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first batch of short backstory/missing scene snippets to help flesh out this universe.

When Jon was in high school, he'd had to take a civics course, and in order to pass the civics course, he had to spend part of a weekend working alongside the juvie work gangs, picking up trash by the side of the highway. It was part of the scare-them-straight tactics that Nixon had started pushing and Carter had overlooked during his reforms, and quite frankly, Jon thought it was kind of irritating. Not only did it take a bite out of his free time, but he already knew that avoiding slavery should be high on his list of priorities: his grandfather had told him enough stories about escape serfdom in Russia for _that_ to be drilled into his brain.

It was really uncomfortable for him, mostly. Most of the juvies were overflow from Trenton, and would have stuck out in his white-majority town even without the uniforms, but he knew two of them from school: Annie Wu, who had gotten caught shoplifting, and Raul Rameriez, who'd been caught smoking a joint. The guards were completely over the top in their verbal abuse, shouting constantly about how they would never amount to anything if they couldn't apply themselves to something as simple as litter removal. There was a lot of talk, both before and after that weekend, that it had all been staged for their benefit, that it wasn't nearly that bad when they weren't playing boogeyman to teenaged freemen. Jon might have believed it, if he hadn't heard some pretty personal remarks about some of the juvies' parents, many of whom were apparently either in the military or serving terms themselves in the regular system.

Identifying as a abolishionist was kind of a natural extension from all of that, more than a choice. He wasn't really sure why more people weren't.

~*~

Aasif was taken into service in December of 2001. He had no formal charges against him, nor any kind of idea how long it would be before his term would be up. He strongly suspected, when he thought about it, that the answers were 'being a Muslim' and 'when he was too old to be of any use to anyone'. 

He stayed in the assingment center for a year, keeping his head down in the hopes that he would eventually be ignored, and gain the ability to move around a bit more, and find some way to escape. Instead, it was decided that he was docile enough to be sold to the public- that was how he'd ended up at Viacom.

It wasn't the worst that could happen. A lot of the people he'd been processed with- those who were unwilling to keep quiet, or even just kept up with the five prayers a day thing- ended up working in coal mines somewhere in West Virginia. And, even if the guard to prisoner ratio was much higher, the guards at Viacom didn't carry assult rifles. It meant that he had a better chance of escaping, rather than dying trying. 

All he had to do was be patient, and wait for the opportunity to arise, and then he was getting out.

~*~

The thing about growing up in Oaklahoma was that everyone had a bit of Native American in them, and therefore everyone had a relative who had been taken away to an Indian School, and returned at the age of thirty, with a high school education and a shitton of repressed memories if they were lucky, and with bare-boned literacy, a case of delirium tremens or opium withdrawl, and maybe even a kid or two if they weren't. Sarah's granmother, eldest aunt, and great-uncle all had variations on that story as a large part of their lives. 

History had always been her passion, and she'd developed a morbid fascination with this history- the history of slavery, it's justification and it's victims- early on. She'd been indulging it- working on a book about it- when she'd been taken into service. One of the historians she worked with had apparently been in with a group on the fringes of the abolition movement, that had introduced some kind of virus into the Department of Labor's mainframe that had fried thousands of chips, wiped out information about the slaves in assingment centers, and given them access to shipping schedules. An estimated five hundred slaves managed to escape to Mexico; Sarah and a hundred and thrity-three others were caught up in that web of guilt-by-association that followed. She was sentenced to sixteen years in service, with the option of parole after five. 

After the first two petitions for parole were denied, she gave up on getting out that way.

She still got letters, from her family, from friends. Reza's were always particularly welcome, full of information about politics that she'd missed while she was busy doing research about whatever was going to be joked about at night, with little swirls in the letters to let her know which words were really important: "the didn't get everyone from that group, let alone from the whole movement," "we haven't forgotten you," and most important of all "you won't stay there for sixteen years, I promise."


	47. Servitude, Part One

Stephen had been requested that night, and had come back two hours past the start of the night cycle with swollen lips and a hoarse voice. He hadn’t slept very well then, but had dropped off easily the next night only to wake up screaming just before the wake-up whistle, had been unable to pull himself together quickly enough to avoid missing breakfast, and nearly made them late for work as well. Tonight, night number three since he’d found out that the supe would be coming back into his life, Jon had been requested. It hadn’t been terrible, but it had been time consuming: Stephen had been asleep by the time he returned, and exhausted enough that Jon was able to wave him off with vague promises of discussing things tomorrow. Stephen was now curled around him, one leg thrown over Jon’s, his arm underneath Jon’s shirt and hand pressed over his heart, breathing into the nape of Jon’s neck.   
  
Jon himself hadn’t slept at all- not a single wink. Normally, even when things were at their worst, he could catch an hour or two over the course of three days. With this, it felt dangerous to even blink, like if he let his eyes close he might relax, and if he relaxed then the supe would appear and start in on him before he could prepare himself. His eyes were burning, and he was seeing movement at the corners of his vision that wasn’t caused by anything real.  
  
“He can’t hurt you,” Stephen said. Jon started- he hadn’t known Stephen was still awake. “Not like he used to, I mean. Even if he requests you-”  
  
“He will,” Jon said. “He knows I’m here, he’ll- even if he’s not obsessed, like he was, he’ll still be curious. In either case, it’ll probably happen more than once.”  
  
Stephen’s grip on him tightened slightly.

“He won’t be able to do as much,” Stephen continued, a desperate note in his voice. “He’s not going to be able to whip you, or cut you, or anything like that, if he doesn’t want to get in trouble. He’s not going to be able to do anything that would take longer than eleven hours, max, even if he makes you skip dinner.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon said. He’d gone over this while waiting for Stephen to return, that first night. “So, he’s not going to be able to starve me, or anything like that either. He’ll be here on about the same schedule as O- O’Reilly was, probably, he won’t have 24/7 access. So he’s not going to be able to pull me out of work for an hour or two and then take the weekend to punish me when I can’t finish it. He’s not going to be able to drag me out at will at all. If he wants to share me around, he’s going to have to make friends with people who are here first. When he wants to hurt me, he’s pretty much going to have to stick to things that will only leave bruises. When he wants to fuck me, he’s going to have to make sure I don’t tear. I know, I know it can’t be as bad as it was, but I’m still-”  
  
He stopped talking, and tried to choke back the lump in his throat. Crying was a conditioned response, at this point. He’d gone through a stubborn period just after he figured out that being the supe’s personal attendant hadn’t made things any better where he’d refused to make any noise, so the supe would keep going until he was screaming. Then he would stop when Jon was crying, most of the time. Then he would sometimes stop when Jon was crying _in the right way_ , which wasn’t something he’d ever figured out how to do and didn’t even seem to always be an option, but it was better than nothing.

That wasn’t going to do much here. It didn’t really do much in most of the situations he found himself in as Viacom’s property, but the habit remained. He busied himself with turning around so he could cling to Stephen in return, and for a moment he merely breathed, and let Stephen shift so he could run his fingers soothingly through Jon’s hair.  
  
“He liked to fuck with my head, too,” Jon said, when he was sure he could speak again. “He wouldn’t let me read my mail myself- he’d read it out loud to me, and then he’d read my replies before letting me send anything back. He changed things- he said my father had died, and he’s still alive, told me Larry had gotten a divorce instead of a daughter. And then, every few months he’d pretend I’d been sold, and they were- I don’t know where he found these people, but they were always _worse_. I- even if I knew it was probably just a- a bluff, I would end up convinced they were going to kill me. Slowly. And then he’d come to take me back and I was so fucking _grateful_. I knew that everything was deliberate and he was only doing it to mess with my head, but I couldn’t stop myself.”  
  
Jon took a deep breath. “And I know it can’t be like that again, that it’s not going to be allowed to get anywhere near that bad, but I’m still terrified. I don’t want to go back to that- and- I- mentally, I’m halfway there already. What I am going to do when he’s actually here?”  
  
“You’ll find a way to get through it,” Stephen said. The firmness in his voice sounded a lot like bravado. “If- even if there isn’t a definite end, right now, there’ll be breaks. It’ll be mostly breaks. I’ll help you.”  
  
“How?” Jon demanded.   
  
“However you need me too,” Stephen replied. “There- there’s this,” his arms tightened around Jon briefly. “Or if you need space, I can give you a few feet, at least. If we start needing more stuff, I can talk to the medic. Or steal from the medic.”  
  
“You’re not stealing from the medic.”  
  
“But I could be,” Stephen said. “Just say the word and I’ll be your personal cat-burglar.”  
  
Jon didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. He slid his hand up to Stephen’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. Really. I just- it’s all in my head, at this point. I don’t know how to deal with the things in my head.”  
  
“Does talking help at all?” Stephen asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. He always felt awful when talking about what was going on in his brain, but there was a kind of relief in having it out in the open.“I’ll let you know after I get some sleep.”  
  
“I don’t suppose there’s something I can do to help with that, at least?” Stephen asked.   
  
“I- not- if you-” He cut himself off.  
  
“What?” Stephen asked.  
  
“Do you think you could stay up, for a little while?” Jon cringed at the neediness in his voice, and gave himself a mental slap. He _really_ didn’t need to be any more pathetic right now. “You don’t have to do anything, or stay up the whole night-”  
  
“I’ll stay up until you fall asleep,” Stephen told him.  
  
“I don’t think I will,” Jon warned him. “I mean, I’ll try, but I don’t think it’s happening.”  
  
“I’ll stay up anyway.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jon said.   
  
“No problem.”

They didn’t speak for a while. For the third time that night, Jon tried to shut his brain off. _You’re safe,_ he thought, trying to make himself believe it. _Stephen’s safe. Neither of you are going anywhere._  
  
He couldn’t manage it. Not while there were unreal shadows moving across the curtains and the supe would be arriving in less than three weeks. He tried to focus on the feel of Stephen breathing: he ended up reliving some kind of composite of the times he’d been woken up in the middle of the night and pushed towards the foot of the bed so the supe could have his dick sucked, or had fallen asleep tied down and woken up when the supe started pushing in. As time had gone by, he’d started not waking up until he was already being fucked. One morning, shortly before he’d snapped, the supe had spent breakfast telling him that he’d slept _through_ being fucked the previous night. He hadn’t been sure whether or not to believe him. He'd fallen asleep so sore that it was impossible to tell if anything more had happened.  
  
“I’m just going to shift, okay?” Stephen murmured, jarring him out of it.  
  
“Yeah,” Jon replied.  
  
Stephen rolled onto his back, and Jon went with him, settling half on top of him. Stephen’s arms settled around him in a loose circle, and something in him clicked, and let him relax a little more.  
  
 _It’s livable,_ Jon told himself. _You didn’t have anyone on your side last time, on top of everything else that makes living here better. The supe went after anyone who so much as talked to you without asking him permission first._  
  
There was one moment where he enjoyed the irony of someone who almost as good as _owned_ him being jealous of someone who talked to him while he was shifting props, and then the realization that the supe would know about Stephen hit him like a speeding train.  
  
 _No, no, no no no nonononono…_  
  
Once, the supe had needed to leave the premises for the day- some kind of meeting with the higher ups that Jon didn’t care enough about to recall the details of. It happened about once a month, and he’d stopped letting Jon have any kind of break on those days a while back. He hadn’t bothered untying Jon when he left, and the guards who'd come to do it for him had wanted him to earn the pleasure. There hadn’t been a need for an understudy that day, so he’d worked shifting props and setting scenes as fast as he could and eaten his lunch even quicker. He’d known there would be more coming, and he hadn’t been surprised when another guard had taken him by the neck and guided him out of the cafeteria and into one of the storage areas.   
  
What _had_ surprised him was the way the guard had smashed his head against the edge of one of the crates before he’d done anything else. The pain had blotted out everything: his vision had gone completely white, his ears had rung loudly enough to drown out everything else, and the only thing he had been able to feel was the impact against his skull. When it had finally receded, there had been blood pouring down his face, and the guard had shoved his pants down around his ankles and was already pressing inside. Later, he could only assume that the supe had asked him to do it that way: it wasn’t the sort of thing you did to a slave who had given up fighting during his first week in service, and had never been very good with fighting in the first place. At the time he’d mostly focused on not puking, passing out, or both. By the time it was finally over he was completely light-headed. He’d collapsed on the floor, had been unable to make himself move for a time, and when he’d finally mustered up the will to at least pull up his pants black spots had danced before his eyes with every movement.

It was around that time when another slave had stumbled across him. Lunch break was over, it seemed, and they had props and set pieces that needed shifting. She had helped him up, let him fumble his pants over his hips, and then helped him to the infirmary while he’d mumbled something asinine like “I’m sorry for bleeding on you. I’m trying to stop.” She hadn’t lingered after dropping him off- couldn’t, really, with the afternoon shift starting- but he hadn’t minded. Being seen by the doctor meant that he had a legally valid excuse for not meeting his quota, and once the IV was set up, he’d slept more soundly than he had in months. Being woken up every so often to track a light and count fingers was nothing.  
  
That weekend, the supe had brought the other slave into his office, and, despite Jon’s best efforts on her behalf (“She wasn’t even thinking about me, I swear sir, I’d just fallen in her way, please sir…”) he’d beat her, then whipped her. It had taken a great deal of begging and a blowjob to get him to agree to let her go to the infirmary. He hadn’t seen her again- she was either sold, or assigned work in a different area than he was. It was the supe’s doing, of course. It fell under the heading of things Jon was involuntarily thankful for: it was a very selfish feeling to have, but he had no idea how he would have been able to handle needing to interact with her in any capacity after that.  
  
All that had been because Jon let someone else touch him while he was about to pass out. What might he do to Stephen, who curled around him every night, who looked after him when he was hurting, who he _had sex with_ , voluntarily?  
  
There were the same old facts as before: _He’s going to have to follow Viacom’s rules, he’s not in charge of punishments any more, he might not even want you any more…_  
  
It didn’t work. He knew all that was thr truth, but not as well as he knew that the supe was beyond terrifying, and that if he still wanted Jon he would hurt Stephen, because he didn’t like sharing when he couldn’t call the shots, and because it would hurt Jon.   
  
Stephen shook him by the shoulder, looking totally petrified. The top curtain had been flung open. He realized that he’d been staring blankly ahead for a long time, and was now trembling all over.   
  
“Sorry,” was the first thing that sprang to his lips. “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”  
  
“It’s okay,” Stephen said, looking relieved. “It’s okay, just stay here. Scream, cry, let it out however you want, just stay here, please. Don't go away like that again.”  
  
Jon nodded, or tried to at least. Stephen busied himself pulling the blankets up around them, and then clung tightly to him while Jon forced himself to stop shaking.  
  
“Sor-” he started, and then stopped himself. “Yeah, I just- it.” He took a deep breath, trying to get rid of the awful hollow feeling. “He might request you. Probably- probably not at first. But- heads up.”  
  
“I’ll live,” Stephen said. “And so will you. We’ll figure out how to deal with it, if it comes up.”  
  
Jon didn’t reply, for a long time. He tried orienting himself for a minute. At some point Stephen had moved them, so that Jon was by the wall rather than the door. He hadn’t noticed. He must have been really out of it.   
  
“He wanted to buy me,” Jon said, before he could think better of it. “Did- did I ever tell you that?”  
  
“No,” Stephen said softly.  
  
“Well,” Jon said.  
  
He was too tired to come up with more words. Eventually Stephen resumed stroking his hair. Sometime after that, Jon’s eyes closed and then there was nothing else until the wake up whistle sounded.


	48. Servitude, Part Two

His nightmares about his family took a vacation, and Stephen started having nightmares about Jon committing suicide instead. He couldn’t say that he liked the change, but at least this way when he woke up Jon was right there, solid, tangible proof of how little truth there was in his dreams. He started going to sleep with Jon on top of him, his arms wrapped all the way around, Jon breathing slowly and deeply even when he wasn’t asleep.   
  
Jon still wasn’t sleeping very much, averaging maybe two and a half hours a night, and it wasn’t very restful sleep either. These days odds were pretty much even that either Stephen would wake up to find Jon assuring him that _it’s only a nightmare, you aren’t in any danger now, I’ve got you_ , or he’d wake up to find Jon squirming against him, making loud, terrified noises that only couldn’t be classified as screams because of how tightly his teeth were clenched shut.  
  
They developed a routine for Jon’s nightmares like they’d done for Stephen’s. Once he was awake Jon was up and running for the bathcorner. He jerked off, or splashed some cold water on his face, or sometimes just seemed to take a few minutes to himself before returning to bed. Then Stephen would pull Jon back on top of him, and arrange the blankets around them. He didn’t speak. Jon did, sometimes- ranted, for lack of a better word, angry and frustrated and very, very scared. It was all very disjointed, and trying to contribute didn’t do anything but make him clam up, so Stephen just listened, and stroked his hair.  
  
If Jon hadn’t said anything for about ten minutes or so, then Stephen would normally start falling back asleep. Jon didn’t, but if nothing else, he was at least _getting_ sleep now.  
  
They were both requested more a bit more frequently than usual. Not often enough to be worrisome, physically speaking- for the most part there was enough time between requests for any lingering soreness to dissipate- but often enough that they stopped having sex for a while. They probably would have stopped, anyway, with Jon so stressed out, though maybe if he wasn’t getting fucked by a stranger one or two times a week the stress wouldn’t be so bad.   
  
The night before Beck made his first appearance on a Viacom show was a bad one. Neither one of them slept a wink, and for the latter half of the night Jon shook so hard that Stephen was afraid he’d fall apart. When the wake-up whistle sounded- finally and far too soon- Jon spent a few minutes pulling himself together and then went about the day the same way he’d gone about the rest for the past three weeks, alternately cringing at every sudden movement and utterly oblivious to everything going on around him.  
  
The others were worried. There had been a talk about that on Sunday, in the greenhouse. Jon had dropped down into one of the benches, tilted his head back, and promptly dozed off. Stephen had sat down next to him, and watched the sunset.  
  
The others had been clustered nearby behind them, talking.

“He was like this when I arrived,” Wyatt had said. “Not quite as bad, but still a bit… he calmed down before Stephen arrived, and then after, he started talking more often.”  
  
“But you don’t know what it was that made him so jumpy?” Sarah had asked.  
  
“No,” Wyatt had answered. “I mean, we all heard him say that this Glenn Beck guy was the supe at the first place he was assigned to, right? It has to be him.”  
  
“I’m not really worried about the ‘who’ part of this,” Olivia had said. “I’m more worried about ‘what’.”  
  
“Supes are-,” Aasif had started, and then stopped suddenly, before continuing. “When I was working in the assignment center, a good amount of the people- not most of them, but, a good amount- who came looking for personal property worked as supervisors. And most of the time they did, they had the person picked out already- someone who worked with them before, either free or as corporate property. It wasn’t- they weren’t generally happy reunions.”  
  
“That’s still not what I meant,” Olivia had replied.  
  
“He probably won’t ask for any of you,” Jon had said flatly, without opening his eyes. They’d all jumped. “He was- possessive, in a weird way, so it’s possible, but I doubt it. If he went after anyone but me it- it would likely be Stephen.”  
  
“Jon,” Aasif had said, worried.   
  
Jon had opened his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I just- I have to get my mind around the fact that I’ll have to interact with him again, first.”  
  
The guards had come into view at that point, so the conversation had stopped there.  
  
  
Stephen half-wished that he’d asked Jon for more information- what sort of injuries he was likely to come back with, if there was anything he knew of that might help afterwards, or anything that definitely wouldn’t. The normal rules didn’t apply here, just like the normal rules hadn’t applied to O’Reilly.   
  
He threw himself into his work, and surprised himself by actually managing to be funny about the trade deficit with China. Unfortunately, it did nothing to slow down time, and it seemed like no time at all had passed between when he and Jon had left their quarters and when they sat down to eat.   
  
Jon ate quickly and mechanically, and finished before the guards arrived with further work orders. They had a request for Tim, but it was from one of Viacom’s producers, not Beck.   
  
Jon let out a low, shuddery breath. Stephen felt overwhelmingly relieved, and then horribly guilty.   
  
“Well, at least it isn’t a movie night,” Tim said wryly.   
  
No one said anything else for the rest of dinner.   
  
Stephen half-expected that- whether it was in line with company policy or not- Beck would be waiting in the hall for Jon, but he wasn’t. They made it to their quarters without being stopped, and there wasn’t anyone waiting for them when they arrived.  
  
“Oh, thank God,” Stephen muttered, resisting the urge to check under the bed. He sagged against the top bunk in relief.   
  
“He’s here for another night,” Jon pointed out. “I told you, he likes playing head games. This doesn’t mean we’re in the clear.”  
  
“I know,” Stephen said. They were silent for a while, Stephen watching Jon stare at the floor.   
  
“I know,” he repeated, reaching out to squeeze Jon’s shoulder.  
Jon’s head snapped up at the contact, but before Stephen could move away Jon was _on_ him, wrapping a hand around his head and pressing their lips together.  
  
 _Oh,_ Stephen thought, as surprise was flooded out by warmth. He’d missed this more than he’d let himself know. _Oh._


	49. Servitude, Part Three

Perhaps the most complimentary thing that could be said about that night was that it’d been frantic.

Jon was desperate, needy, and so very relieved that it washed away the anxiety that had been chewing at him for nearly a month. Stephen responded, if not exactly in kind, then certainly eagerly. They fumbled over one another, pushing each other’s hands where they wanted them to go, completely fucking up the whole taking off your clothes thing, knocking uncomfortably against each other’s knees and elbows.

It wasn’t bad, per say. It just wasn’t very good either.

And that wasn’t why Jon was laying awake, his skin crawling as Stephen snored into the pillow next to him, but it didn’t exactly help.

_You know why you’re so keyed up, don’t you? It’s because you spent the past several weeks preparing to be seven kinds of fucked tonight, and now you’re not going to be able to rest until it’s actually been done._

Jon groaned out loud, causing Stephen to jerk awake and look over at him, bleary-eyed.

“I’m fine,” he assured him. “I can’t sleep, but otherwise I’m fine.”

Stephen blinked, and made a motion with his head that was probably supposed to be a nod as his head fell back down. His arm squeezed briefly around Jon’s middle, and then he was asleep again.

_You’re so fucked up. You’re such a fuck up._

_Oh, shut up,_ Jon thought back at himself. He was so tired of the constant fear and the feeling that his memories were eating him alive, so sick of not having anything worse than himself to hate. He was so done with all of it. _Just shut the fuck up._

He focused on the words- _shut up, shut up, shut up_ \- until well after they’d lost all meaning, and he was able to go to sleep. Neither of them had any nightmares, but Jon was even more tired when he woke up than when he fell asleep. There was a good side to that though, it seemed. He’d apparently reached a point of exhaustion where, once he’d managed to focus on work, he didn’t have the energy to be constantly reminded about how much worse his life used to suck. He gathered during lunch that Fox had begun promoting their end-of-the-year special on what absurdly rich people did with their personal property. It was kind of hysterical, the lengths those went through to try and not outright state that much of it involved very elaborate bondage gear.

 _Work,_ Jon reminded himself, and buried his thoughts under information on the supposed ‘War on Christmas’ tonight’s guest felt threatened by.

Somehow, he even managed to forget that the supe was still on the Estate. He didn’t remember it until he and Stephen turned down the hall and found him walking down it, towards them.

“Jon!” he called out, sounded absolutely delighted. Jon froze, his heart pounding, as the supe advanced.

“Sir,” he acknowledged, his mouth suddenly very dry. He swallowed.

“You’re looking well,” the supe replied. He reached out a hand, causing Jon to jerk back instinctively before stilling himself. The supe seemed to anticipate it, grabbing him by the hair and jerked his head back and slightly off to the side. Jon had a bruise there, left from a session four nights ago. At this angle, it was impossible to miss the way his eyes zeroed in on it. His hand relaxed, and he dragged his fingertips down the back of Jon’s neck- a touch that meant _get on your knees_ and _now_ and _it’ll only hurt more if you don’t obey_. Jon crumpled to the floor before he could so much as think any of it, causing Stephen to make a small noise.

“And this must be Stephen, right?” the supe asked, turning away from him.

“Yes sir,” Stephen answered, before he could. The supe gave Stephen a lingering once over, and then reached out to cup his chin. Jon couldn’t help but make a sound in protest, and the supe squeezed Stephen’s face tightly in response.

 _Don’t,_ Jon wanted to shout. _Don’t touch him, don’t look at him, **don’t even exist in the same space as him.**_ But he couldn’t.

_Don’t struggle, don’t move, just let him take what he wants…_

“You must be looking better than I thought,” he said to Jon, and then released Stephen and left without another word.

“Jon?” Stephen asked, as he helped him get back on his feet. They turned, and watched the supe turn the corner.

“Let’s just go, okay?” he nearly begged. “Let’s just- let’s get out of here, come on.”

It wasn’t that long a walk to their quarters, barely a few seconds. It wasn’t nearly enough time for Jon to get a handle on himself. The door clicked shut behind them, and he still felt sick to his stomach and he was on the wrong side of the room for throwing up in the toilet.

“Son of a bitch!” he yelled, lashing out at the closest non-Stephen thing: one of the wicker baskets hanging in the room for storage. There was a crack as it gave out, leaving them both to stare at the jagged, fist-size hole it was currently sporting.

“Oh god,” Jon moaned, anger quickly turning into horror. People went through rounds of electric shocks for breaking Viacom’s non-human property like that.

“Okay,” Stephen said, his voice in a higher pitch than usual, but otherwise completely calm. “Okay, let’s just…”

He stepped forwards, and gingerly reached through the hole, retrieving a large, mostly-intact piece of wicker, which he tried to gently place back into the hole. It was still clearly broken, but it looked somewhat better.

“Okay,” Stephen said again, rotating the basket so the hole was facing the wall. “Okay, I’m doing this, why don’t you find some way of sweeping up the pieces on the floor so we can flush them?”

They used a letter and envelope from one of Jon’s letters from his brother, working quickly and silently, as though they weren’t locked into a sound-proofed room by themselves.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, after the little pieces of wicker had disappeared down the toilet.

“It’s not-” Stephen began automatically, then stopped himself. He put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, and after a moment, pulled him in for a hug. “Next time you get the urge to punch something, use one of the pillows? A mattress? Something that won’t break?” Stephen asked.

Jon nodded into his neck. They stood there for a long moment, before heading for the shower. By mutual unspoken agreement, it was a long one, just a few seconds too long, as it turned out, the cycles changing before they’d turned off the spray.

They dived into bed still damp and shivering beneath their sleep clothes. Jon pulled the curtains shut, and Stephen pulled all of their covers over them both. It was already obvious that tonight was going to be one of the colder ones.

Jon settled down on his side, and Stephen spooned up behind him, his very cold nose pressing against Jon’s neck. Jon jerked in surprise, and Stephen threw an arm around his middle, mumbling “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Jon replied softly, and then listened to his breathing change.

They probably would be okay. Assuming no one called them out on it tomorrow morning, that is: it’s entirely possible that someone was at least listening when he’d lost control. The slaves who dealt with the laundry probably won’t rat them out if they noticed, if only out of fear that they’d be blamed for the damage. He had no idea when there were inspections- if there even were inspections outside of the paperwork- but it was possible they wouldn’t look closely enough to notice it.

_There’s nothing you can do, Jon. Go the fuck to sleep._

Stephen rolled off of him, and he rolled over on his back. He focused very determinedly on underside of the top bunk, before he realized the Stephen was becoming fitful, twitching in his sleep. Jon turned himself over and curled, against Stephen’s side, and he stilled. This was new. Stephen hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep in years, certainly, but he could generally sleep about as well on his own side of the bed as he could cuddled up against Jon. That had changed at some point- whether it was the sex or the whole mess with O’Reilly and now the supe, he couldn’t tell.

He wasn’t all on his own anymore, was what this all came back to. He was going to have to be careful-with the supe, with everything. Turning his thought away from such risky lines of thinking, he focused on counting each rise of Stephen’s chest beneath the blankets. Eventually, he managed to fall asleep.

He woke up in what must have been the early hours of the morning, to the sound of Stephen whimpering in his sleep. He shook Stephen out of the nightmare, and they shifted so he could pillow his head on Jon’s collarbone. Jon tucked the blankets around him and rubbed circles between his shoulder blades until he fell back asleep. It was around this time that he realized that his nose was really stuffed up. By the time the wake up whistle sounded, Jon had already woken Stephen up with his sniffling, who’d then insisted that Jon stay in bed while he dug out the tissues.

“Happy Hanukkah,” he said, handing Jon the mostly-empty box.

“Thanks,” he replied.

He skipped shaving that morning and got a fresh box from the medic. He set up shop with the materials in the corner of the writers’ room in an effort to infect as few people as possible. Naturally, that accomplished jack shit.

“Well, at least none of us got requested,” Jon said the next morning, offering Olivia the tissues when it seemed her sneezing jag had finished.

“Don’t jinx it,” she muttered darkly, then blew her nose.

“I’m just surprised this didn’t happen earlier,” Stephen said, passing her a box of her own as he sat back down. Somehow, he’d talked the medic into giving him three. “Normally Jon becomes a germ incubator sometime in October.”

“I was on antibiotics in October,” Jon reminded him. Aasif let out a huge, wet sneeze, causing everyone at the table to pull their trays away from him, as though that would somehow stop the germs from spreading.

By the time the week was over, their entire group was flagged as being ill- even Stephen and Tim, who remained stubbornly healthy until after Christmas. The timing was lucky- they had a Saturday workload every weekday between Christmas Eve and sometime early in January, and normally whatever guards were left without leave during those days went out of their way to make the slaves utterly miserable. But they apparently had no desire to get sick themselves, and as a result kept their distance. The flag on their files marking them as sick- if not sick enough to be off duty completely- went out to everyone who requested them, and they managed to dodge the horrors on the end of the year company party, as well as the inter-company schmooze fest that happened at all the major broadcaster’s New York offices on the New Year. Honestly, snot, sinus headaches, and persistent coughing was more than a fair trade. The vapor rub was actually kind of nice, even.

Being able to attend Christmas Mass did wonders for Stephen’s mood, and it carried him through his bought with the common cold and into the year 2005. Jon mostly just enjoyed the chance to see Stephen smile and relax a little. He knew it wouldn’t last, and he was right: the day before the Recap resumed shooting, he was put on antibiotics for what had developed in bronchitis, everyone else had the sick flags removed, and the schedule for the rest of the month was posted. People from NewsCorp were visiting twice, and the supe was listed as part of the group that would be arriving the next day.

Jon asked Karlin if he could get some of the material for the next day’s show ahead of time- tomorrow was going to be rough. At least it was a Friday, and he’d have the weekend to recover. Karlin handed him the biography of Robert Heilbroner, who’d died recently, much to the glee of basically every slave owner in the country including the dude who was going to be on tomorrow.

Sarah was requested that night, as was Aasif. Jon sped through his shower and set himself up at the foot of the bed, where he could read without disturbing Stephen too much. He managed to keep up the illusion for maybe an hour after the night cycle began, when Stephen suddenly began talking.

“Is there anything I can do to help? Or anything I shouldn’t do?” he asked. “For tomorrow.”

Jon paused for a moment, before resigning himself to having to finish the book tomorrow. He put the book up on the top bunk, put the curtain back into place, and slid under the covers next to Stephen. The bed was just wide enough that when they were lying on their back side by side- as they were now- they could be just barely touching. Jon stared up at the top bunk, feeling the warmth from Stephen’s body seep into his own.

“Knowing that- knowing that you’ll be here is a bigger help than I can describe,” Jon said. “Beyond that, I just- I’ll be twitchy. I should be able to get over the worst of it in the shower, afterwards, but I might still- if you could let me cuddle up to you rather than the other way around, that might be best.”

“Anything else?” Stephen asked, after a few moments’ silence. “Is there anything I should have out for when you get back, maybe?”

“Salve,” Jon said immediately. “I’m definitely going to need the salve. I should- if I need help, I’ll ask for it, but mostly, again, if you could let me put it on, otherwise?”

“Of course,” Stephen assured him. “What about clothes?”

Jon smiled ruefully. He’d worn more clothes than usual to sleep tonight: he’d doubled up on shirts, a long sleeve and a short sleeve one, and had a pair of socks pulled up to nearly his knees under his pants. And of course, Stephen had noticed. It wasn’t like there was much else to do, if you weren’t busy fighting your own brain, that is. “The more the better, I think.”

They were quite for a few moments, and the Stephen shifted away from the wall a little, his arm pressing against Jon’s. It felt a lot nicer than it would have earlier.

“I think I’m going to start asking for the material ahead. At least until I have some idea what the supe wants. Not just on the nights he’s here, even, now that I’m thinking about it.”

“Good idea,” Stephen said. “If there’s any chance that we can get Redstone’s people to stop issuing consent…”

“It’ll be by being productive enough that someone will be reluctant to endanger it,” Jon finished for him. “I’m going to have to keep it up, afterwards. At least long enough that I can be sure the supe isn’t still asking for me.” He thought about that for a moment. “So, probably until my term is over.”

“We probably should have just kept on working as hard as we could,” Stephen said. “We were distracted,” Jon reminded him. “There was that whole thing where we both ended up in the recovery ward within a month of each other.”

“Yeah,” Stephen said, subdued. Jon reached out and took his hand, and Stephen turned on his side to face him. “Jon?”

“Right here,” Jon assured him, shifted so they were facing each other.

“Anything you need- just let me know, and I’ll do whatever I can,” Stephen told him.

“I know. And thank you,” Jon replied.


	50. Servitude, Part Four

It came as no surprise to anyone when Jon was requested the following night. What was a surprise was the fact that the request had come from Creepy Doctor, rather than Beck. Stephen didn’t know what to make of that one. Neither did Jon, if the bewildered edge to his normal pre-request anxiety was anything to go on.

He deliberately didn’t think about it during his shower that night, and tried to think about it as little as possible when he went on to set things up. He left out clothes for Jon (socks, pants, and two shirts) as well as the salve and, after a moment’s thought, the antibacterial cream. With those supplies safely stashed on the top bunk, he settled in, trying to focus on the battered Quantum Leap novel he’d taken out from the library to ease the gut feeling he had that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He drifted off uneasily, jolting awake after a nightmare about being strangled, only to fall back asleep and have another nightmare about drowning. He was about ready to start pacing around- if nothing else, the cold would keep him awake- when the bottom curtain was pulled back.

“Jon,” he said, relieved.

There was a long pause, during which Jon blinked down at him, one hand still grasping at the clothes on the top bunk. “Stephen,” he said, with a note of finality.

“That’s me,” Stephen replied, sitting up. Jon was moving slowly- though, of course, he could just be sore- and his eyes were worryingly unfocused.

“Jon? Can I check something for you really quick?” he asked, standing up.

“Okay.”

Stephen reached out and cupped Jon’s face, tilting it up so he could see his pupils in the soft yellow light. They were dilated, but evenly so, the one on the left the same as the one on the right.

“I don’t think you have a concussion,” Stephen said.

“Okay,” Jon said again.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Jon shrugged, and hugged his clothes to his chest.

“I’ll- I’ll be in bed. When you’re ready,” Stephen said, at a loss as to what else he could do.

“Okay.”

Stephen crawled back into bed, leaving the covers pulled back for Jon. He listened as Jon changed his clothes, moving painfully slow, before he finally returned to the bed and lay down, curled with his back to Stephen, and his knees folded against his chest, like he had the first few nights they’d slept together.

He smelled… odd, Stephen realized. Not like sex or sweat, and not like he hadn’t showered- he was pretty sure that Jon had showered, his hair was still wet- but, kind of spicy, almost. It reminded Stephen of Tex-Mex. He’d almost forgotten Tex-Mex existed.

He reached out an arm, and Jon flinched, curling in on himself even more. “Jon?” he called. After a minute with no response, he added “No touching?”

Jon rolled over, and peered at him from over his kneecaps. “Stephen.”

“That’s right,” Stephen replied. “Is touching not okay right now?”

“No,” Jon said.

“Can I get the blankets pulled up for you?”

Jon appeared to think it over, and then nodded his ascent. Stephen tucked the blankets around him with as little contact as possible. “Can I close the curtains?”

“Yeah,” Jon replied. Stephen fastened them shut, and moved carefully back to his side of the bed, trying not to let his panic show. Jon might- might not be _here_ , really, but he didn’t doubt for a second that panicking outwardly would only make things even worse.

The last time Jon had withdrawn from- well, from everything- it had been absolute. He wasn’t sure that it had been worse, though. This time around Jon seemed able to recognize and respond to his questions: Stephen felt a sick surety that if he gave Jon an order, it would be followed. It was terrifying. He wondered, for a moment, whether that was how he acted like when he was on the pills.

“Did they make you take the pills?” Stephen asked.

Jon started, but after a moment replied. “No. Some- something else?”

He looked at Stephen for approval. Stephen nodded jerkily at him. If they’d given him something, then it would probably wear off by morning. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Let’s try to get some sleep,” he said.

“Okay,” Jon said, and turned away from Stephen. He was still very tense, and very still, but after a moment, he began to relax, and at some point Stephen’s nerves relaxed in kind, until he fell back asleep.

When he next woke up Jon was out of bed, swearing a blue streak as he rooted around in the basket. Stephen took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before getting up to join him.

“Jo-” he stopped himself short. Jon had taken his shirt off, and Stephen could see that his back was covered in what looked like the world’s worst sunburn imposed on the world’s strangest tan line. “Oh my God, what happened?”

“I don’t know!” Jon cried. “I mean- wait, can I just-?”

He picked up the salve to complete his sentence.

“Yeah, of course. Do you need help?”

“Yeah, probably,” Jon admitted.

He took off his pants and more or less face-planted on the bed, while Stephen perched on the edge and worked his way up from the purpling bruises that circled his thighs.

“It’s like I can remember imagining it happening,” Jon said suddenly. “Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t- I guess the pills don’t do that to you?” Stephen asked.

“No. I just- I just lose all control of myself. Or, if things get bad enough for long enough, I start blacking out, pills or no. This was new. I am way too old to be dealing with new.” The last word was nearly lost in the hiss Jon made as Stephen began applying salve to the bottom of the maybe-burn.

“He brought me to one of the examination rooms,” Jon told him, after a moment.

“Is that allowed?”

“I’ll have to check,” Jon replied. “But that’s what he did, and he strapped me down and I think he injected me with something. It felt like it, but he had me blindfolded, so I’m not sure. Maybe it was a painkiller? I walked back, right? This seems like it would be too painful for me to walk back on.”

“You were back and getting your sleepclothes before I woke up- and you were really, _really_ out of it. I’m pretty sure you showered, though, if that helps.”

“Yeah,” Jon said. “Yeah, I don’t think he would have had me shower with him. I kind of- this was a blacking out night, towards the end. It- it felt hot like an iron, but it really wasn’t an iron. A steamer, maybe? There was some kind of liquid involved. I don’t- I haven’t had to deal with being burned since I was reassigned,” he finished plaintively.

“Do you think he’ll request you again?” Stephen asked, setting the salve on the top bunk as he finished. Jon didn’t move, apparently content to lie on his stomach until his back dried.

“I think so. He- there was a camera in the room, when he had me come in. I think he taped it. So, if he won’t do it again, I bet someone else will.”

“Are they allowed to tape us?” Stephen asked, his stomach sinking. _That_ was going to feature in his nightmares when they cycled back to his family, at the very least.

“I don’t know,” Jon said. “It hasn’t happened before, so probably not, but- I just don’t know. I’ll have to talk with Riggle about this tomorrow. I have no idea whether or not he was allowed to do any of that, or why…” His voice trailed off, and he slumped into the mattress even more. “He probably taped it for the supe.”

“What.”

“That’s the worst case scenario I can think of right now, so that’s going to be my theory. Doctor Benoit is friends with the supe and is going to send him tapes of him doing god-knows-what to me so he can get his jollies off whenever he feels like it.”

“But then why would he request you on a night when the supe is here?” Stephen argued. “Why wouldn’t he just let Beck have you?”

“You’re assuming that the supe asked for me tonight,” Jon said.

“Why wouldn’t he? Last time he was here, he came all the way down to the slave quarters.”

“And then left. I told you, he likes to play head games,” Jon sat up, and held out his hand. Stephen handed him his shirts. “My anniversary is next month,” Jon added quietly, after a moment. “Of- I’ll have been in service for thirteen years, I mean. I won’t know for sure if he’ll be here until they post the schedule, but…” He trailed off with a shrug, and then put his shirts back on.

“Okay,” Stephen said. “Okay. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just- what do we need to do about the doctor?”

“Benoit? We need more information.”

Stephen snorted: he’d heard that before.

“If he’s in with the supe somehow, I’ll probably hear about it when he requests me. If it’s something else- I don’t know. That will depend upon what Riggle tells me, I guess.”

“You should ask about what the guidelines for recording our sessions are, even if they aren’t banned outright,” Stephen suggested. “He’s probably not supposed to sell anything made with us, without permission. So, if he gets caught selling tapes in a parking lot or something-”

“Oh God, he’s probably already put the video up on the internet,” Jon moaned.

“Hopefully not.”

“I’m going to have a wider audience as an unwilling porn star than I did as a comedian,” Jon continued, adding just a touch of melodrama to his tone. The corners of Stephen’s mouth began to twitch involuntarily. “And I’m not even going to be able to put it on my resume.”

Stephen snorted. “You might be able to if it gets him kicked out.”

“Nah. The copyright still belongs to Viacom,” Jon replied. “Maybe they’ll start a porn channel or something. And then it’ll start moving away from porn and become a channel with talk shows that interview porn stars.”

“Except us, of course.”

“Yeah- wouldn’t want us to go off the script and start explaining the whole ‘luxury items’ shit is shit.”

“Actually- did you hear? When Olivia got requested last night, the first thing that happened was the she got a box of chocolates.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Yeah, apparently some of the freemen didn’t get the bullshit memo.”

“That makes sense,” Jon said, his tone thoughtful. “I mean, they are lying with the intent to be believed by people _outside_ the estate. It’s not like they can correct them.”

“Not without jeopardizing their “Most Humane Corporate Slaveowner” award.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Did they win that again?” he asked incredulously.

Stephen flopped down on his back with a sigh. “Probably. The award ceremony is next week.”

“Well, that’s something to look forward to,” Jon grumbled.

Stephen closed his eyes, and nodded.

“You know, it’s not like I think this place is the worst- or that I can’t believe it isn’t one of the better places to be assigned,” Jon said. “But- they celebrate getting a reward for their humane care of their slaves _by_ _having sex parties with slaves_.”

Stephen hummed in agreement. Technically, it wasn’t a sex party of course- not like the New Year’s Eve one was, or the company wrap party at the end of the year. But there was a fair amount of alcohol and someone had to pour the drinks and bring everyone food- and there was the understanding that, if you were one of those people, your presence implied Redstone’s consent.

But he wasn’t going to worry with that now. Jon was back, and he didn’t really have the energy to worry any more.

“Are you falling asleep now?” Jon asked, amused.

“Yeah,” Stephen replied. “Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

“Scoot over,” Jon said. Stephen tucked his legs in, and shifted so he was lying on the bed like a normal person. Jon fastened the curtains back up, and pulled up the blankets as he curled against Stephen’s side. Stephen flung an arm around him, and had the fleeting thought that he was really glad Jon generally had no problems being used as a giant teddy bear before sleep dragged him under.

He had no more nightmares that night, which was just as well because he woke up to one. It wasn’t obvious, at first: Jon was somewhat sore the next morning, but not sick, not unable to move. Riggle wasn’t in his office when they went to find him, so they headed off to breakfast.

The electric chair was set up in the center of the mess hall. It wasn’t occupied, not yet- it wouldn’t be until dinner, when whoever it was that had broken the rules would be fastened to it and-

They grabbed what food was left for them as quickly as possible before heading to their table. Sarah looked extremely relieved when she saw them.

“We’re not missing anyone,” she said in an undertone after they sat down. “It must be someone from another group then.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, and Stephen could tell he was thinking about the hole in the wicker basket. His stomach twisted itself into knots, and he had to force himself to eat. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if he was too light-headed to concentrate on his work.

Not being light-headed didn’t help very much. The first skit he thought of was a parody of the Humane Society’s Slaveowner Awards, which took some thought to come up with a way to make it gel with his character and would never make it to air anyway. It kept distracting him, though, and he finally had to pick something completely unrelated- such as the latest breakdown in negotiations for a ceasefire in Iraq- to write about instead.

The chair was still in the mess when they went to lunch. So was Creepy Doctor- or Doctor Benoit, as Stephen should probably get used to calling him. He called Jon aside ‘for a quick word’ almost as soon as they entered, and by the time he let Jon go, he was ashen-faced and his hands were shaking.

“Jon?” Stephen asked. “It’s not- it isn’t for you, is it?”

“He didn’t mention it. I’m just- I’m not going to be talking with Riggle, about last night.”

Stephen opened his mouth to ask why, but Jon cut him off. “Not right now, okay?”

“Okay,” Stephen agreed, and went back to their lunch, unusually subdued as it was.

Stephen had never had to undergo electric shock therapy. He’d been shocked with a stun gun three or four times during the first session he’d been requested for, and he’d been shocked with the collar during that out-of-house barbeque, but neither of those used a current with the same strength as the chair did. Jon had- he was pretty sure that Beck had used that strong current at least some of the time, and Jon had been punished that way here, once. He’d called a freeman- a guest, no less- a dick, albeit after being asked for his honest opinion. The guards had taken him into custody, and then marched him out to the chair the next night. There had been five minutes worth of flickering lights and blood-curdling screaming, and then they’d dumped Jon on the floor and wheeled the chair back out.

Stephen had had to all but carry him back to their quarters, which was when they discovered that they’d lost their curtains as well, making the top bunk far too bright to sleep in, and the bottom bunk only somewhat manageable. Jon had offered to switch, Stephen had offered to just take the top bunk and bury his head under the pillow, and they compromised by both squeezing into the bottom bunk. By the time they’d gotten the curtains back, Stephen had already gotten used to Jon snapping him out of his nightmares, and helping him back to sleep. Jon had made a hesitant, stuttering offer of being allowed to slip into his bunk anytime he needed to, and Stephen had taken him up on it to the point of never actually returning to sleeping on his own.

 _We lived through it before_ , he told himself, and then forced himself to concentrate on his work, which had been sent back with a strongly worded request to make it into something that might actually be considered funny.

 The chair wasn’t intended for Jon, or anyone he knew. He didn’t recognize the woman they brought out, not even as one of the people who served up the food, or who might pass him in the hall when he’d been requested. That didn’t actually make the screaming less horrible.

Dinner was quiet. It was Aasif that pushed it into quiet from silent.

“Do we know if she did the outgoing mail or the ingoing kind?” he asked.

Sarah shook herself out of her thoughts just enough to reply with “What?”

“She wasn’t censoring the mail properly,” Aasif reminded her. “So I was wondering if our mail was going to start coming in with more black marks, or going out that way.”

“Your mail has things blotted out?” Stephen asked.

“Yeah,” Aasif replied. “Yours doesn’t?”

“No,” Stephen replied, and turned to Jon.

“Whenever Larry mentions his coworkers or other freepeople, their surnames are blotted out,” Jon said. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Sometimes there are a few words blocked out,” Olivia said. “It’s only sometimes, though.”

“Same here,” Al said.

“Mine almost never have anything blotted out,” Sarah said. “But then again, most of the people who write to me have some idea of what catches a censor’s eye.”

“I guess that might apply to John,” Stephen said, considering.

“My letters vary,” Wyatt said. “Sometimes there’s nothing, other times entire sentences are missing.”

“Huh,” Sarah and Jon said at the same time. Stephen concurred.

It wasn’t terribly surprising that Aasif’s letters were heavily censored. He’d been arrested under the Patriot Act which meant that the censor would view him either as someone likely to be in communication with terrorists, or to sue for his freedom, which would garner the company some bad press if nothing else. Nothing else really made sense though. Sarah had been arrested in connection with a radical abolitionist group, Olivia had been arrested at a protest, Jon had some black marks on his record for violence and willful insubordination, Wyatt had been set up to have his term extended for stealing at his last assignment, and Al had attempted to run when his debt became delinquent. Why weren’t they being censored too?

None of them felt comfortable discussing things out loud: they also didn’t want to split up until absolutely necessary. They lingered in the mess hall: there were a few board games left for nights like this, when there were no movies to play, so they got a hold of a Scrabble board, and eventually segued into trying to spell out the filthiest things they could. It was more awkward than it might have been on another day- they were all on edge and filth kind of came with the whole ‘slave’ thing- but once Wyatt broke out the unicorn and emu orgies everyone took it as their cue to starting racing towards absurdity. The underlying hum of anxiety never really left, and it took some effort to realize, as a group, that they really needed to go to sleep.

It was too late to bother with a shower that night- they would take one tomorrow, if need be. Stephen helped Jon apply the salve, and then they settled into bed, spooned together and facing the curtains.

“Are you going to ask?” Jon said, after a moment.

“Are you okay for answering me?” Stephen replied.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Okay. Okay then- what did Dr. Benoit say to you this afternoon?” Stephen asked.

Jon threaded his fingers in with Stephen’s, squeezing. “He said it was a test- an experiment. He’s- apparently he’s doing a study. On behavior regulation and correction for slaves.”

Stephen felt his blood run cold. “What? Does- don’t you need to get some kind of notice before-?”

“Last night was a trial run,” Jon said, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “He- apparently my background was what he was looking for, and I was- he’ll be doing the actual study, of the course of two weeks, when there’s the break in the spring. And then again, in the summer. And uh- a follow-up in winter.”

“What does even mean? Behavior regulation and correction?” Stephen demanded.

“Fuck if I know,” Jon said, adding after a moment. “But hey- at least he doesn’t work for the supe.”

There was a beat of silence, and then two, and then they both broke out into simultaneous, helpless giggles.

“It’s shit,” Jon cried. “It’s all shit, it’s just such-”

“Don’t give them ideas,” Stephen chimed in, which set them off again.

“Oh God,” Jon gasped. “God and Jesus and fuck it, throw Mohammed in there too. What the hell are- am-”

“You’re going to live,” Stephen said. “You’re going to live, and I’m going to help you. And it’s going to suck, and we’re going to do it anyway on top of our normal workload- which will also suck.”

Jon laughed again, all bitterness and fear. “Hooray! Great plan!”

“If you can think of something better please, by all means, do so,” Stephen said. “I’m starting to get nostalgic for O’Reilly.”

“Don’t say that,” Jon said quickly.

“Why not?” Stephen challenged. “It had a lot to recommend it- only one regular person to deal with, who didn’t live here, no idea that our situation was so-precarious, that we really were here as much- as much for the sex as anything else. I mean- if I’d wanted to be a gigolo, I’d have done it- done it out there, where I could have at least made some money out of it.”

Jon turned around and wrapped his arms around him.

“I want to be safe again,” Stephen said, burying his face in Jon’s hair. “I want you to be safe- I want to just skip ahead five years when we won’t have to- to-”

“Oh, Stephen,” Jon said softly.

He was been very selfish- selfish, presumptuous, pathetic- he realized that. He wasn’t the one who was being targeted, about to be hurt, but he couldn’t help himself. Just the thought made him want to lock his arms and legs around Jon and refuse to leave the bed until his term was up. He was so afraid of how afraid this made Jon.

“Just let me know what I can do,” Stephen nearly begged. “Just- anything to make it less horrible.” _Please, let there be something_.

“I will, I will,” Jon promised. “I might not be able to know what would help but- so far, you’ve been pretty good at guessing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Stephen said, rubbing between Jon’s shoulder blades. Jon snuggled against him, easing him onto his back so they were lying in a more comfortable position. “I just- I wish I could figure out how to protect you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Jon said.

There were silent after that, and after a few moments Stephen drifted off. He had another nightmare, this time about falling off a cliff and pulling Jon down with him. When he woke up, Jon was whimpering his erection a hot weight grinding against Stephen’s thigh. He shook Jon awake, waited for him to complete his ablutions, and then wrapped himself around him when Jon returned to bed. It was just about the only thing he knew how to do.


End file.
